#X Men is a story about racism

[awakefor48hours]

Conservatives: Why are they making Marvel and DC woke now? It's ruining the experience

[stormxpadme]

I wasn't sure about all these little dialogues in a growing crisis situation on both opposing sides in tomorrow's chapter, but honestly, for the "How the fuck can you afford living in New York anyway? You do porn or something" line alone, this is going to stay.

[scarlet--wiccan]

Agatha All Along, the highly anticipated follow-up to WandaVision, begins airing this week on Disney+. Now is the perfect to revisit some important information about both shows and the context in which some of Agatha's new characters are being introduced.

WandaVision primarily followed the character Wanda Maximoff and expanded on her family history by introducing her late parents as well her twin sons, who are born from magic and age rapidly over the course of the series.

In the Marvel comics source material, Wanda is part of a large, multigenerational family of Jewish and Romani characters whose stories frequently reflect the systemic violence and oppression that both communities face-- including Romani Holocaust victims, who are critically underrepresented in both education and media. In the MCU, these identities and histories are completely erased, and the characters are all played by white actors. Alternate versions of these characters also appear in the Fox X-Men films, and are similarly whitewashed.

The Romani people are a racialized minority that originated as a South Asian diaspora, and who face severe systemic oppression in Europe and North America. The modern Romani population is quite diverse, but they are not of white ethnic origin, and despite the fact that Wanda and her family have historically been drawn with white features, they are minority characters and ought to be considered as such.

Depictions of witches and witchcraft are often entwined with antisemitism and anti-Romani racism. In pop culture, witches and fortunetellers are typically portrayed as visual stereotypes of Romani women. In the real world, fortunetelling is a profession born from survival work, one which Romani families are often heavily policed and racially profiled for practicing. While Wanda usually subverts these tropes, they are often played straight elsewhere in the superhero genre, and any story about witches, especially one featuring Romani characters, needs to be critiqued in this context.

Agatha All Along introduces viewers to a new cast of characters, including Lilia Calderu, played by Patti LuPone, and the enigmatic "Teen", played by Joe Locke, who is heavily speculated to be an incarnation of Wanda's son, Billy.

In the comics, Lilia is a member of a prominent Romani family in Wanda's community. Often lauded as the "witch queen of the gypsies," Lilia embodies many racial stereotypes about Romani women. In Agatha All Along, Lilia is depicted as an older Sicilian woman, however, being portrayed as a batty fortuneteller with a tawdry psychic shop, she still embodies an offensive trope. Although Lilia is far from "good" representation, this is not an improvement-- if anything, it's even more exploitative.

Billy was raised in a Jewish American household and places a very strong emphasis on his Jewish identity, in addition to having Romani heritage. His identity as a young gay man is always presented in conjunction with this heritage, not in spite of it. Though there is a significance to Locke being a gay actor playing a gay character, his casting-- if he is indeed playing Billy-- is not authentic. White gay representation should not supersede racial inclusivity, and it is not an excuse for whitewashing or Jewish erasure.

Marvel Studios recently announced that the character Doctor Doom will be played by Robert Downey Jr., who is returning to the franchise after many years in the role of Iron Man. In the source material, Doom is also a Romani character with a very similar background to Wanda's. This identity is central to Doom's character-- although he is written to be both morally and politically challenging, the liberation of his people has always been a primary motive.

Clearly, this type of whitewashing is an ongoing pattern in the MCU franchise. Although "Teen's" identity is still unconfirmed and Lilia may, ultimately, be of little consequence, they are part of a larger problem, and Agatha All Along needs to critiqued in that context.

[simping-on-the-daily]

Some Kind of Angry Beaver

Summary: The Wolverine’s massacre has made you lose everything. Your friends are dead, you’ve left home, and the world’s hatred for mutants grows worse. You promise to yourself you’d have a few words to him if you meet again, and you do, at one of the shady bars where you both grieve your losses.

Notes: Reader is a mutant and was with Wolverine for a brief time, very very brief implications of sub!Logan. Not romantic anymore, and yes the title is from ERB deal with it. Worstie is a lot more sad and pathetic since this is early post!slaughter, gender neutral reader, not beta read we die like this universe’s X-Men, I wrote this in a day and it’s absolutely gonna show

Warnings: Logan killed some of Reader’s friends in his rampage, story is based on grief and death, mutant racism, Logan tries to kill himself but he comes back dw, and a whole lotta swearing

Before you met him, you had no clue what a wolverine was.

You’d barely heard of it, having skipped over it in some animal documentary to focus on more interesting animals, like sharks and alpacas. When you passed by a bar with a few cage fights, you heard the name Wolverine for the first time. When looking at the man’s body, admittedly luscious hair with canines and claws, you had assumed a wolverine was some type of dog or cat, before nailing it down to a wolf. Wolverine, wolf, they just added some more syllables to make a difference.

“It’s a weasel.” The man who you now knew was called Logan answered curtly upon your question, looking away from the bed which smelled of steamy intimacy from last night, and thus, turning away from you, who was on the other side, putting your clothes back on.

“That doesn’t seem very threatening,” You quipped back, putting your shirt on. “The fuck’s a weasel gonna do to the lucky guy?”

Logan gave a quick grunt. “They should be more worried about what I’d do to them.”

“If you can avoid their little collars, that is. Fucking bastards and their dampeners.” You said with a sarcastic sigh. The Senate was trying to make them more commonplace, and though the clapback was fierce, you were still a bit wary.

He gave a quick hmph, and that was that.

You stayed together for a few months. It was unforgettable, to say the least. Watching that man squirm under your touch was an accomplishment for the ages, and the moment you made tears come out of his eyes you did a little victory dance in your brain. You bought him dogtags and things you thought he might’ve liked, while he defended your honor in your ring, beating the shit out of anyone who dared to shittalk you.

“You shouldn’t have, sweetie,” You jokingly answered, upon noticing that his knuckles were still dripping red after passing by a beaten guy carried by his friends, making small comments about how dumb he was. You noticed some scars subtly close in, and turned away, pretending you saw nothing. “His ego can’t take another hit.”

“Can yours?” He answered, and your only response was a pinch of his cheek.

Of course, it didn’t last. Nothing bad happened, you simply just went in other directions. Logan kept hopping between different clubs with cage fights, and you settled in a small town and made a life there. You never forgot how it felt to touch him, but you’d seen him in action. Dude could do just fine.

You got a job, and got your own group of people. Majority of them were human, but like hell if that mattered. You shared good drinks of booze together and you cared for them. Brittney gave birth to a child, and god that kid was the cutest, fattest little fucker you’d ever seen. A few years had passed since you’d met Logan, and by then you were content. Your abilities were accepted, you’d gotten your own little found family, and you comfortably nested yourself in the community.

Brittney and her new fiancé, Ken were going to NYC for a vacation, and trusted the rest of you with their child. For the best, you know now.

“The X-Men are dead. You should be staying here.” Charlie said, crossing his arms to the couple. He wasn’t exaggerating, the X-Men were dead. Their mansion was ransacked and their bodies were fucked. You remember holding in the urge to puke, as the censoring on the news was done horrible, all the guts and gore visible. Jayden didn’t, you remember, running to the toilet and letting out a combination of a vomit and sob.

“We can’t just cancel. I promise, we’ll be safe.” Ken said, though it was obvious he was nervous. “That money can’t just go down the drain, and we’ve shortened it to just two days.”

“The fuck’s the point on going a vacation, then?” You spoke up, eyebrows raised. Brittney looked at me, before back to her now crying baby, probably from all the arguments.

“I have a gun for a reason.” Ken shrugged, and you and Charlie died down. You knew you weren’t gonna win.

“Just….keep Hope safe, alright?” Brittney’s query ended the conversation, as you nodded before giving her a hug. Charlie left the premises, and later you’d see him in the casino, trying to drown out the worry you felt.

You should’ve pushed more. You should’ve tied them to a fucking chair, drugged them with some sleeping pills or whatever. Anything to prevent what happened. But you can’t turn back time, that wasn’t your mutant ability, and now your friends are dead.

So many people were dead.

You spent three days in lockdown. All from some….monster, indiscriminately slaughtering everyone in a path that couldn’t be determined. New York was fucked, Brittney and Ken were fucked. You saw their names on a list of casualties. Jayden wailed for the loss, and you let out a few tears yourself. This shouldn’t have happened, this shouldn’t ever have happened.

The three days ended, but it felt a lot more like an eternity of Hell. Your town wasn’t touched, but you still saw so much blood as you left your home. Nothing changed and yet it all changed. This didn’t feel like home, not anymore.

When the news told you the culprit of this massacre, you couldn’t resist the urge this time. You puked in your toilet, tears running down your face. Your friends were dead to someone who you knew, who’s cheeks you gently pecked. The hands that you once held were used to slaughter Brittney and Ken and so many innocent people. Logan had killed your friends, had killed you in a way.

The bodies were returned, and you cremated the couple at their funeral. You still had some tears to cry, face blank as you stared at their urns. That was your second last day in that town. Everyone hated you now, your mutant powers were despised once more after Logan fucked everything up. No-one looked at you normally anymore. Their gazes were full of hatred and prejudice and pity and god you fucking despised it. With the knowledge that Charlie adopted Hope and Jayden had absolutely run out of tears, you left, wiping your face as the downpour consumed you.

You passed by, traveling across without a goal. You became closely acquainted with the train and bus, and you once more learned to hide your powers, something that you never thought you’d have to do again. Any progress people might’ve been working on towards total acceptance went down the drain, organizations quickly scrambling to make speeches about how ‘one mutant shouldn’t define an entire race’. You would’ve agreed, but the carnage was massive and you still saw dried blood on some walls from the Wolverine’s rampage is you looked closely enough.

After it rained again, you sought refuge in one of the nearby bars. It smelled of shit of booze, and you took a seat near the front.

“Whatcha want?” The bartender asked, gruff in his voice noticeable, and you thought for a second, looking at all the glasses behind him.

“Second heaviest thing you got.” He nodded, and quickly poured some beer in a glass. You had him a note before drinking.

You comfortably fell in the routine, sitting in silence, all the other conversations providing ambiance to your casual misery. Then, like a lightning strike to a tree, it just had to end.

The door opened again. You didn’t care, but when all the conversation stopped, you looked up. You retched upon seeing the fucker’s face, and moved farther away from the door until you were on the opposite end of the counter.

Logan either didn’t notice or didn’t care, sitting at the counter. “Fuck off,” The bartender almost snarled. “We don’t want ya kind here.”

Logan pulled out a few coins. “Not a paying customer?” He spoke, as if he was ignorant to all the shit he pulled just a few weeks ago.

The bartender grunted, pouring him a glass of wine that was obviously cheap and old. The mutant accepted it anyway, taking a long sip. He shouldn’t be enjoying himself, you thought with disdain, he should’ve been rotting in Hell without a drop of drink and no flames to light up a cigar.

The ambiance stopped, no-one wanting to talk while the beast was around. For some fucking reason, you didn’t move from your seat, and so you were just a few meters away from the ex who took so much from you.

After five drinks, you had enough. You got up from your seat and left some change behind as a tip. A more conscious you wouldn’t have tipped someone who was likely a mutant racist, but you weren’t really thinking. You wanted out, you wanted away from the monster, you wanted away from that bloody wolf.

You walked a few steps away from the building when Logan came approaching you. You paused in place, perhaps by the audacity of his actions.

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyes widened, but you gave a small growl, turning them narrowed again. “For what?”

“I wronged you.” You always did need observational skills to become a good tracker.

“Their names,” You shot back with a snarl, “Were Brittney and Ken, and they were heading to New York. They did nothing to you. And you still killed them.”

“I did. I’m sorry.” He repeated, as if that would make it any better.

“I don’t care if you’re sorry!” You yelled out, pointing a finger towards the other mutant as you took a step forward. “You slaughtered my friends you fucking bastard! You lost your family, big whoop, what right does that give you to make mine too, you bloody prick?!”

You had thought about this type of scenario before. You wouldn’t give him a verbal beatdown, no, you were too classy for that. You’d say one sentence that would crush his resolve and leave him astounded as you walked away, knowing that your friends were at peace. But you were drunk and angry and your family was fucked over because of this one man, and so you went on, like a lion going overkill when it finally encountered their prey.

“I wish I never fucking met you! It’d be sooooo easier if you were just some psycho rando, but I fucked you! We slept in the same bed and I kissed you and god I fucking knew you. You were one of the X-Men, you were supposed to save the world, but all you do is make things worse!” You sobbed, dropping your hand to your side as they shook.

“And it’s god’s greatest wish that you die alone and scared, just like your fucking victims, but it’s also god’s little gift that you can’t die! And you just had to in-fucking-flict it upon all of us! All you do is make things worse for everyone, you ruined everyone’s life, you ruined my life, god fucking damnit!” You put your face into your hands and sobbed. You must’ve looked so pathetic, having this breakdown on the road in front of your murderous ex.

“I should’ve tried harder.” You murmured weakly to no-one in particular. “I should’ve stopped them. Shouldn't have relented when Charlie did. Should've done more……” Tears and hands muffled your voice. “But I didn't and now they're fucking dead.”

You finally looked up, and just like you, Logan's face was covered in tears. Good, you thought. Let him suffer.

“Should've been there for them.” You didn't expect him to talk. “Should've gotten off my ass and done something. And now they're ten feet under cuz’ I didn't.”

A stray sob escaped your throat again, looking at him, covered by rain and tears and now the moon was out. “Guess we both fucked up, huh?” You tried to smile, head tilted, with it only just looking broken and fake.

“They'd all be disappointed.” Logan confirmed somberly, as he thought back to Colossus and Professor X and Scott, all too aware of their hypothetical reactions if they knew of his actions.

“The X-Men were supposed to be heroes, weren't they?” You looked up at the stars, and held a hand up like you were trying to catch them. “But you were always the best at what you did, and what you did was never heroic. You told me yourself.” Answering your own question, your hand flopped to the side again. The stars didn't feel so luminescent, not right now.

Logan gave a small grunt, trying to wipe away his tears. “I know. I'll carry it for the rest of my life. It's what I deserve.”

“It's what you deserve.”

You spoke at the same time, before you gave a fake small chuckle. “God, you're fucking horrible.” You paused for a second, letting out another pretend giggle. “Thanks for telling me what a wolverine was, Logan. Cuz’ I know that you’re the fucking worst one.”

You lunged forwards and punched him in the cheek. It hurt like hell, and Logan didn't flinch, but fuck did it feel good.

“Fuck you, Logan. I hope you rot in Hell, you bitchin’ bastard.”

He only nodded, tears still cascading down his face as you stormed away and walked away, just like you did to your home.

You found yourself sitting on a bench, still raining and still wet from your encounter. Your ass was fucking freezing. Maybe you deserved it for being such a bad friend. You wouldn't be here if you had been there for Brittney and Ken. You had a lot of tears in your body, you realized, as you sobbed once more, grieving the loss of everything you once had. God, you hated beavers.

Logan hated himself too. That should’ve made you feel better, but it didn’t. You were still just as empty and sad as you were this morning, just this time you were drenched and drunk. You looked up at the stars again, and though they were still just as dull as they were when you encountered Logan, you still gazed anyway. They were all you had left.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Logan rushed into the dump he called a home, a retch stuck in his throat as he frantically searched. Your words were repeating once more, becoming one with the fucked up chorus that was his mind, mocking him for even considering that you’d want him back. It was a passing thought that he immediately disregarded, but the voices milked it, acting as though he’d been pining over you for years.

He’d never forgotten you, you were important to him. But you moved on, and so did he, and he tried to shoot his shot with Jean. But Jean’s dead, and you weren’t, and you hated him. As you should, he didn’t blame you, he hated himself. And yet it somehow stung.

The cacophony roared with laughter at his turmoil, and he clutched his head, praying they’d get out. He couldn’t handle your voice, he couldn’t handle Jean’s voice he couldn’t handle Colossus’ voice he couldn’t handle Scott’s voice he couldn’t-

Finally, he found it. He snatched the gun that was hidden in the sofa, a desperate last resort who times like these, when they wouldn’t stop. His finger stroked the trigger almost tenderly before putting it to his head.

“You know this isn’t gonna work, right?”

“Bro forgot he has a healing factor. Did all that killing make him braindead or what?”

“You don’t deserve to die. You deserve to live with this for the rest of your life.”

He knew that. He deserved all this pain, but Logan was never the paragon of morality. He was a selfish prick, who ruined everything he touched and yet he was the last one standing. But he wanted the voices to go, he wanted them to stop, and he wanted to stop crying because God it’s just been a dam breaking on his face since you yelled at him.

He was alone, and he was scared. Just like you wanted him to be. He embraced the trigger, and felt tranquil as the surge of bullets went through his brain.

It was only serene for a few minutes, but for Logan, the worst Wolverine who killed so many innocents, who ruined any chances of the world accepting mutants, who drunk so much it got his family killed and still drunk? Even a second of that serenity was a touch of heaven that Logan didn’t deserve.

[strawberryraviegutz]

People will be like, “cringe culture is dead” “fuck cringe culture and don’t let anyone bully you for what you like ” and then proceed to make fun of/shit on the following

-Disney Adults(obviously we should be boycotting Disney rn but adults are allowed to like “childish” things along with stories about fairytales and magical wonder)

-Adults who enjoy any type of kids media(unless you’re sexualizing the child characters in the series or shipping the child characters with adults then yeah that’s gross. Also not all bronies/male mlp fans are gross creeps)

-Fangirls or fanboys of any kind

-Minors literally just existing(and yall wonder why kids wanna grow up so fast, because adults/older people are making fun of/complain about them for anything they do)

-Skinny Twink tumblr sexyman character designs and people who are attracted to them

-Skinny twink anime male character designs and people who are attracted to them(or any attractive male or female anime character designs tbh)

-Tumblr sexymen in general

-Anyone’s own headcanon human designs for non human characters you personally don’t find appealing(yes I mean people who make Twink/anime human designs for non human characters too. Although if you’re making a fat character skinny and or whitewashing a non white character then don’t do that)

-Creepypasta

-Anime lovers(yes including the ones who larp as anime characters, Naruto run, owning a death note notebook, ect.)

-Danganronpa(obviously there’s a lot of stuff in Danganronpa that’s not good but most people have this misconception that we are okay with the sexualizing of the minor characters or the Nazi skull thingy on Kokichi’s hat, racism, ect. Most of us don’t like that stuff AT ALL. We just wanna enjoy the story and different characters. People can like something while still criticizing it)

-People who discover music through TikTok

-Female gojo fans/any female who simps for any of the jjk men(I’m literally holding off on trying to catch up on jjk because I don’t wanna be made fun of for liking Toji..as for Sukuna, if you’re gonna simp for him, do it for who he was before he possessed Yuji because Sukuna is currently possessing a 15 year old)

-Character x listener audios(Especially the MHA ones)

-My hero Academia

-Twilight(yes there’s a lot of valid criticisms for the movie and book series but no one should be made fun of for liking them)

-People who enjoy spicy books/fanfiction

-VTubers/PNGtubers

-Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss

-People who like cutecore and or cutegore(kawaiicore/kawaii kei and or gurokawaii)

-People who wear alternative fashion/alternative people in general(yes the “2020 alt kids” and bunny hat alt kids count too along with e-girls)

-People who are into jfashion/kawaii fashion(especially people who wear Lolita and jojifuku. Lolita fashion has nothing to do with the book or for “trying to impress men”nor is it a fetish thing it’s just about wearing poofy frilly dresses and looking cute. As for jojifuku, jojifuku is NOT AN INHERENTLY BAD FASHION IT WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE SEXUALIZED AT ALL CREEPS/PEDOS HAVE JUST TAINTED ITS REPUTATION ITS ALSO JUST ABOUT LOOKING CUTE. I’d also like to say that jfashion does count as alternative fashion too)

-People who dress “childish” in general

-Age regression(that’s not supposed to be sexualized either. Age regression is a coping mechanism not a fetish or kink.)

-Furries

-Beginner artists/animators/artists and animators that aren’t beginners but are still learning

-Animation memes

-People who selfship with fictional characters(including men. Men should be allowed to selfship too)

-“Marysue” ocs/characters

-self inserts

-Shoujo romance stories

-Miraculous Ladybug

-Genshin impact(same thing as I said with Danganronpa. You can like something while also criticizing it. As a black person who likes Genshin I hate mihoyo for their racism and colorism but I still enjoy the story and its characters. Also stop making fun of the short male characters’ body types. Y’all wanna preach about body positivity but then make fun of the body types of Xiao, Cyno, Tighnari even though there’s people WHO HAVE THOSE BODY TYPES IN REAL LIFE)

-Anything that seems too happy or too whimsical

-Fnaf

-Gamers

-Poppy Playtime

-People who simp for characters that you personally don’t consider attractive

-Cosplayers(yes even the ones who lipsync to music and do dances/poses)

-BL or GL(it is possible to enjoy these things without fetishizing gay people in the process)

-Anime art styles with big eyes(big eyes has always been a staple in most if not all anime art styles, but I’m more or so talking about the 2000’s anime art style along with Kamichama Karin)

-Yandere characters(most people find comfort in this trope because they wanna feel loved by someone. Most people who like yanderes don’t want an irl stalker)

-Undertale/Deltarune

-Skibidi toilet memes

-Sanrio/Hello Kitty girls

-Steven Universe

-The Amazing Digital Circus

-Marvel fans

-Sonic

-Cookie Run/Cookie Run Kingdom

-LPS and LPS YouTube videos

-People who enjoy kpop or jpop

-Wattpad fanfics/fanfiction in general

-“Wattpad Y/N”

-Y/N

- the concept of a “cringy Y/N”/Comparing characters to that type of Y/N archetype. Just because you don’t see yourself in most “typical Y/N” fics doesn’t mean other people don’t nor is there anything wrong with those types of Y/Ns

If you preach against cringe culture but turn back around and make fun of what I listed above then you’re not actually against cringe culture

[333creolelady]

Lady Of The Blue Bakunawa Ch.9 (Finale)

Afab! Black OC x Roman Reigns (Pirate Au)

Warnings: SEX, Fem rec oral, Male rec oral, P in V penetration, Cursing, Discussions about Racism/ Systematic oppression, very light angst (with heavy fluff omg)

Word Count: A Whopping 34k. I am so sorry.

Official playlist link

Alternative playlist link

Official songs for this chapter: The whole world, Le style du Barry, Le lever du, Concerto G, Sonatas, The zong, Lord Mansfield, First impressions, The living sculptures, Darcy’s letter, Jeanne Versailles, spring 1, Malena Titoli di coda, To the ball, Academy, Laverton, Merry, Misirlou, Danube, The pink room, You would be my wife, You already, Nobody gets me (classical).

Alternative songs for this chapter: The gentle rain, Flick, From scratch, Guitar song, 26, The only exception, We’ll never have sex, Futile devices, Love Story, Hide, Breathe, Possibly Maybe, Lover you should have come over, Feel like home.

Cover by @joannasteez

<-Chapter 8

<- Back to Masterlist

Jane Pov

There were many inexplicable occurrences that happened as a result of the island. For one, the seasons had changed. They were spat out somewhere between Totoguam and a British occupied port. This was a relief, as it would take them a very long time to get back to Europe from where they came. It took 6 weeks flat to reach the Port of Tillbury.

Jane agreed to accompany Roman to meet an old friend in Paris and take a breather after such a vigorous quest. A quarter of the pirates parted ways with the group to pay off debts, return to family, visit family, or simply retire. William was included in that group of people. Understandably so, he needed to make things right with his wife. Doctor Earl decided to stay a bit longer, simply stating that his work was not done yet. Caden would be accompanying Jane and Roman on their trip.

Before any real break could happen, business had to be dealt with. Roman left early in the morning to travel to London to clear warrants. Jane spent the day preparing for their trip. She started packing the new sets of clothes that Roman had picked out for her. Shoes, dresses, shifts, stockings, garters, stays, modesty slips, caps and fichus, paniers, petticoats, and engageantes. Roman had gone on a bit of an impulsive spending spree as he was terribly sorry about the destruction of the last ship and all their personal belongings. After packing her items she moved onto his. She prepared her hair in small twists, hoping to not be bothered with it for a week or two. The slip of her hair pomade in her hand made her grateful to be back in the general population.

With a smaller group of pirates, dinner took half the time to cook. Tilbury wasn’t particularly known for its fresh produce or quality cuts of meat. The boat had better food. Beef and potatoes were a favorite and it was a favorite this night just as any other night. Roman came back with a tired but satisfied look on his face. She could tell by his smile that the day had gone well. Before she can utter a word, his mouth is on hers, giving her a generous and suggestive greeting after so many hours apart.

“ Dinner is ready. Caden helped”, She pulled away from the kiss with a chuckle, slapping her hand across his chest.

A goofy grin spreads across his face “ Great. Let us enjoy our meal in the bedroom”, he suggests lowly. She looks around at all the men sitting in the dining hall. They were far too busy stuffing their faces. Roman motions for the door with his eyes, trying his best to convince her. “come on”, he whispered to her. He’s already holding his plate and hers. She pulls off her apron and sets it on the seat. One of the lower ranking pirates hoots suggestively as the two disappear behind the door. Roman doesn’t even bother his typical threats from his cheery mood.

The two reach the bedroom and she sets the plates on the table, pouring a glass of water for the both of them from the picher that sat near the window sill. Roman strips himself off his coat, waistcoat, and shirt. He pulls off his tricorn hat and takes down his hair from his respectful ponytail.

“ You’re in a good mood”, Jane laughs.

“ I am. I have great news. I was able to clear up some warrants for myself and the crew. You don’t even have a warrant anymore.” Jane perks up at those words.

“ Indeed, you are declared missing in the country of England. This is because they found no remains. This means that all your debts and warrants have been cleared. You are free”, Roman quips.

“ Free…”, the word bounces off her tongue in a peculiar way. She supposed that life in London was no freedom after all. If one could even call what she had before a life.

Roman sat next to her, throwing his arm around her shoulder and pulling her temple to his mouth for a peck.

“ A fresh start. You can even choose a new name if you like not that it will matter. I don’t have much business to do with London at this point. You won’t have to go back here if you do not wish to”, he assured her.

“ Processing the paperwork will taking some time. We will head to Paris by carriage the day after tomorrow. Caden will escort you to the shops tomorrow to get anything you need for our stay which will be three weeks long.”

Jane brows raise in surprise “ Three weeks?..What on earth will we be doing for three whole weeks?”

Roman playfully rolls his eyes, “ Can a man not surprise and plan things for the woman he loves? If you were supposed to know I would have told you by now ”, he chuckles.

“ Not even a hint….you’ll spare me ?”, Jane scoffs.

“ It’s a vacation”, Roman muttered, scraping the last bit of potatoes off his plate. Jane was so excited she couldn’t even finish her meal and instead pushed her plate towards his.

“I suppose that will be enough. I’ll try to get more out of you later… I have my ways,” she teased. A rumble in his chest tickled her ears as she stifled a laugh and he pulled her into his lap.

Roman leaned into the crook of her neck. “Spoiled rotten… never let me have the last word, can you?” He quickly caught her off guard with a smack to her bum. She squealed, jumping up and diving for the bed.

As promised, the day after the next, two carriages awaited them at the end of the dock, drawn by four large white horses. The carriages were brown with gold embroidery—no doubt they were expensive. The coachmen placed Jane’s and Roman’s luggage on top of the carriage. Roman helped her step inside while the coachmen held the door open for her. Inside the small cushioned box were three medium-sized windows with retractable blinds. There were two cushioned benches adorned with beautiful swirly embroidery around the perimeter of the carriage. The ceiling was dark red with gold designs dancing across it. Jane sat down, and Roman sat across from her. The coachmen closed the door and opened the two additional windows to let in the light.

“The quality of this carriage… it’s so rich. It almost looks like a royal carriage,” Jane said, looking around in awe. It even smelled nice. A beat of silence passes. “Is this a royal carriage?” Jane frowned in confusion. Roman chuckled knowingly.

“I take it you haven’t traveled in very good carriages before?” he deflected. Jane rolled her eyes, aware of his angle but deciding to drop it.

“I wouldn’t call a wooden bench staring at the back of a horse’s arse particularly ‘good,’ so I’m easily impressed so far,” she snorted.

He chortled. “Well, if it’s that easy to impress you, prepare to be astonished once more… very soon.”

“How long before we get to Paris?”

“All of today. We won’t reach Paris until nightfall.” Roman removed his jacket and rolled it behind him into a pillow.

A day was nothing. The two of them lost track of time in conversation—a common occurrence when they were together. Roman told old pirate stories, and Jane listened intently. The bottle of ale certainly helped keep the topics interesting. Eventually, around midnight, Jane could wait for Paris a second longer. After a long rant about a specific color of dress she could never seem to find, she slumped against his chest. Sleep claimed her, and Roman, a bit of a night owl, decided to join her in slumber. He didn’t want to miss her reaction.

Jane's body sensed the carriage stop, stirring her awake, which in turn woke Roman. He looped an arm around her waist and pulled her upright before opening a blind. Jane gasped as she looked out the window.

A palace? Why would she be at a palace of all places? Why would Roman take her to a palace when he practically hated nobility? None of it made sense. She glanced between his eyes and the massive property just feet away.

A little knock on the door startled her, as she couldn’t see anyone standing there. Reluctantly, she opened the door. A small voice cleared its throat, and her eyes shot down to a sandy-brown-haired girl with large, poofy ringlets split into two ponytails on either side of her head. She wore a child’s nightdress with a robe and matching pink slippers. Her large eyes, tiny bulbous nose, and round pink lips made her look like a little cherub. More surprisingly, she was incredibly tiny, appearing to be around four to six years old. Maybe it was because Jane hadn’t been around many children; most of the earls and ladies she had worked for were older with grown children. The little girl smiled at her. “Bonjour! Parles-tu français?” she asked.

“Uh… no,” Jane replied awkwardly, a small chuckle rising from her chest as the little girl eyed her curiously.

“Hello, my name is Eloise!” the little girl said, sticking her tiny hand out to Jane. Her accent was distinctly French, and her voice was sweet yet clear, as if she had spoken two languages her entire life.

Jane, bewildered but charmed, took the child’s hand in her own and introduced herself. “Jane,” she smiled.

The child turned to Roman. “And you must be Papa’s friend. He said you were coming. He’s not back yet from his hunting trip with Mama, but don’t worry. I can give you a tour since he’s not here. I know all the rooms of the palace and the—”

“Eloise! What did I say?! You are to be in bed! Une dame ne salue pas ses invités dans ses vêtements de nuit. A lady must be presentable!” a woman called from the top of the steps leading to the entrance of the palace.

The little girl took off running into the palace, a guard jogging behind her, shadowing her every move. Jane and Roman stepped out of the carriage as she disappeared around a dimly lit corner. A woman in her fifties with deep brown hair, green cat-like eyes, a long defined nose, and cherry-red lips approached the couple. She wore a long deep green gown, and her hair was styled in a puffy updo. Jane glanced back to see Caden still in his carriage parked a few inches away, greeted by a different courtier.

“Monsieur Roman, Mademoiselle Ramlal—welcome. My name is Beatrice. I split my time between being a governess to Lady Eloise and a courtier for the Duchess of Orleans. The Duke will be so pleased to have you both here,” she said, respectfully curtsying and smiling at them.

“Hi… Is this… Versailles?” Jane asked, looking around curiously at the architecture.

The woman covered her mouth to suppress a chuckle. “No, ma’am. This is Palais Royal—home to the Duke and the Duchess. However, Versailles is just up the road, an hour away by carriage. You will experience the wonders of the King’s home soon enough. Not to worry.”

“Thank you, Beatrice. This is Jane’s first time in Paris, so she’ll need some time to adjust”, says Roman.

“Of course! Let me show you to your room, and we can do a tour of the property after the Duke and Duchess return. Let us take the short way, as I know you two must be very tired. Right this way,” Beatrice smiled kindly, signaling to the officers to unload the luggage, which was then picked up by four servants who appeared quietly in the background.

On the short walk to their quarters, Jane took it all in—what she could see, at least. Before her stood an architectural giant, its grandeur dwarfing the buildings in England. It worried her slightly that Versailles would be even bigger than this. The palace, with its striking classical façade, was an intricate tapestry of columns and arches. Tall Corinthian pillars, fluted and carefully proportioned, rose imposingly toward the sky, framing the grand entrance like sentinels of history. The creamy stone glowed warmly against the light, each detail sharp and vivid against the Parisian night sky.

Jane’s gaze swept over the expansive courtyard, where the geometric design of the paving stones seemed to lead her deeper into the heart of the palace. To her left, the vast gardens unfurled, their manicured hedges and vibrant flowerbeds a riot of color, contrasting beautifully with the pale stone of the building.

The sheer scale of the Palais Royal filled her with awe; it seemed to stretch endlessly, a labyrinth of wealth and privilege. How did people live like this? The intricate ironwork of the balconies twinkled in the moonlight, and the ornate sculptures perched atop the façade looked down like ancient figures, frozen in time. Every detail—the delicate carvings, the imposing gates, the shimmering windows—left her wide-eyed. This was not just a palace; it was a gateway to a life that was completely alien to her old one. And she thought the Earl she worked for was rich?

“Roman, we are criminals. We cannot be here,” she whispered quietly to him as they walked behind the governess. They were in the foyer, heading up a marble staircase so clean she felt she could eat off it.

He looked down at her, noticing her nervous glances over her shoulder as if there was a guard about to handcuff her. “Do you really think I’d take you somewhere where they would arrest you? It’s taken care of, remember? Besides, the Duke and I are childhood friends. He would sooner hide us than give us up to the law—a law we are no longer in trouble with. Relax. It’s what you’re supposed to do on vacation.” He looked down at her again as she continued to glance around suspiciously. Jane could send him into hysterics when she wanted to. This was one of those moments. She grabbed his large hand tightly, and he squeezed her small fist reassuringly.

“Okay. Here are your quarters. The Duke has informed us that you would like to share a room,” Beatrice led them down a winding, tall, echoey hallway that Jane nearly slipped on. She wasn’t used to walking on stone yet. They arrived at the room, and Beatrice opened the door. Jane held back a gasp.

The bedroom was lavish and opulent. The room featured grand, ornate furnishings with rich fabrics and intricate detailing. The walls were adorned with delicate wallpaper in a soft goldish-brown color with floral patterns. A large, canopied bed served as the centerpiece, draped in expensive linens and surrounded by tapestries.

Gilded accents and antique mirrors with elegant chandeliers illuminate the room with a warm, soft glow. Decorative vases and fresh flowers bring life and color to the space. Cushioned gold chairs and mahogany tables line either side of the room. A small table and two chairs sit near the large window with a balcony. The rug is spotless; not even a speck of dust or dirt can be seen on it, despite its cream and gold colors. The fireplace is large, with fresh wood sitting inside it. The room is adorned with ancestral paintings and murals. The marble floor features intricate designs. The ceiling is gold-trimmed.

“Your things will be here shortly. Ms. Ramlal, your measurements will need to be taken.”

“Oh—I brought my own dresses, no worries,” said Jane.

“This will be for your Versailles trip. Here, the court is a little more relaxed. However, Versailles is more traditional. The King doesn’t particularly like British fashion, so you’ll have to respect the rules of his court. Otherwise, you may insult him. His Highness is a little more… particular, ” Beatrice explained gently.

Jane blinked with surprise. “Oh—I was not aware. Thank you for letting me know.”

“My pleasure. Oh look, your bags have arrived,” Beatrice said, stepping aside to allow the male servants to place the luggage trunks next to the room dividers at the far end of the room. Two more servants, this time female, entered the room. They greeted her quietly, and she returned the favor. Roman was sitting in a chair, going through a small bookshelf that sat on the opposite side of the room. Jane walked to the full-length mirror next to the suitcases and allowed the ladies to take her measurements. The process took all of two minutes before they left with a swift curtsy.

“You two enjoy the rest of your evening. There will be a Butler named Joffrey stationed outside your door. If there is anything you need, report to him, and he will have it done. Is there anything else I can assist you two with?”

Roman stood from his sitting position. “No, that will be all, Beatrice. We truly appreciate your hospitality. I wish you a good night.”

“And you as well. See you both in the morning, Monsieur..Mademoiselle,” Beatrice curtsied and left.

Jane let out a long sigh, relaxing her shoulders. “Goodness. I felt like I was in a play.”

Roman chuckled knowingly. “The people of the court are almost as intense as the royalty. Every nicety must be observed. Every interaction is uptight. But trust me, the Duke and the Duchess are not like that.”

Jane looked around the room, turning her body to take in each part of it. At the end of the room sat assorted berries, chocolate, chocolate-covered berries, scones, soups, cheeses, breads, and wines. Jane rushed over to pick a berry from the tray.

“Mmm…” she said, picking another and putting it in her mouth. Utensils lined the tables. She picked one up, only to realize it was pure gold. The thought tickled her. Wouldn’t silver be just fine?

Chocolate was a rare delicacy. She’d tasted it maybe twice in her life and then never again.

“Fan of chocolate?” Roman smiled, watching her pick over the food table.

“Fan of anything sweet, if you couldn’t tell,” she chuckled.

Roman stood, his knees groaning from sitting all day. He pulled off his dress coat and placed it on the side of the chair. “The Persians love their sweets, so you won’t leave this place unsatisfied. Come, let me loosen your corset.”

Jane washed down her berries with a splash of wine before she shuffled over to Roman, kicking off her heels and letting her toes sink into the carpet. Roman stood behind her with his tall stature, pulling down the straps of her corset and loosening the ribbons that wound up her back. The final tug at the bottom of the corset popped the cage loose, allowing the fabric to fall down to her hips. She could feel her breasts spill out, but she made no move to hold them. She carefully pulled it off, revealing a thin, sheer undergarment slip she wore underneath. She lifted the garment over her shoulders and tossed it on the floor, leaving herself in bloomers and nothing else. She felt a calloused finger trail along her back and up her right shoulder. There it was again, that tension that had been brewing for weeks. She peeked over her shoulder, and his eyes were focused on her skin, painting small circles and patterns against her back and shoulder. His pupils, darker than usual, met her own, and she nearly flinched from the heat of them. They stayed there for a minute while a silent conversation was held.

Any day now, it would happen. His lust was so incontestable, so palpable, she could reach out and touch it. He took a step back and surrendered to their circumstances. No, not yet. Close, but not quite yet. It had been a long day, and his eyes lowered to her dress on the floor. He picked it up and set it alongside her luggage.

When she entered the elaborate bathroom, she noticed a large, spacious marble bathtub sitting by the window. She requested a bath, and Roman took his shortly after hers. The exhaustion set in fast as the two barely uttered goodnight before reaching deep sleep.

The morning sun illuminated every corner of the gold-speckled room, creating a shiny and soft haze over her eyes. To wake up glowing was strange after living inside a wooden ship for the better part of a year. Jane sat up to find that Roman was gone, which made her a bit nervous. A small note sat on her pillow, and she opened it.

“Gone to have a smoke with Arnaud. Pull the rope, and your chambermaids will come and get you ready for breakfast. I’ll see you soon.”

Arnaud? That must be the Duke. She pulled on her bathrobe and walked to the golden rope hanging by the door. She tugged it twice and stood in front of her bed, waiting to see if the maids would arrive. When they did, they greeted her quietly and walked her over to the center of the room.

She wasn’t really sure how to speak to the servants; part of her felt guilty. She used to be one. But how does one possibly speak from the other side of it? She supposed it was best to let them do their jobs. Most of the time, she just wanted to be left alone in the presence of the wealthy. Small talk bored her, and she had a million other worries on her mind than which outfit looked better on which hair color. So she let them work her clothes off in silence.

What happened next was absolutely ridiculous. She realized she hadn’t been dressed by another person since she was at least five years old. She was dressed in layers, more layers than she was used to. She felt like a noblewoman, and somehow the dresses she had brought with her, came alive in a way they hadn’t before.

This dress was light pink and frilly. It almost made her look like she belonged in this place. It had bows, lace, and a dramatic bust. The dressmaker had stressed to her how something this beautiful could only be worn somewhere of beauty. He told her that she must wait for a special occasion—now was the occasion. What else would you wear to breakfast in a palace? She put on matching pink pearl jewelry. The price was exorbitant, but it was something that Roman had picked out for her. Things were different now; money was no issue, despite the feeling not yet setting in. The dresses he had bought her when they first met were nice—expensive dresses even—but this was on a whole new level.

The ladies huddled around her and added a pink rouge to her cheeks that complemented her skin tone well. Then, they added a lightly tinted glossy pigment to her mouth that caught the light perfectly. They used a waxy substance on her lashes to elongate them and then pressed a clean-scented powder to her skin. It was perfume, she realized. She never really bothered with perfume, but this one was gorgeous. It smelt like vanilla…cake and berries. She kept raising her wrist to her nose to smell it. One of the mousy maids reached for her hair, and Jane gently grabbed her hand to stop her.

“Madame… your hair… do you not want it styled?” she asked curiously.

“Uh… my hair is a bit of a mystery. I can’t style it like the other ladies; it’s far too… complicated. Please, let me figure it out” Jane scrambled. She ended her sentence with an awkward chuckle as the two maids looked at her strangely.

“No worries, madam. Eloise has special hair too; it requires gentle hands. One moment,” the maid said before disappearing to speak with the butler outside the room.

Jane and the chambermaids sat in awkward silence for a painful five minutes. A woman rounded the corner, her hair wrapped. She wore a white variation of the maid's dress, and her face was kind and smiling. Jane realized that this woman was the first person she’d seen who looked like her in ages. Her shoulders relaxed, and she let out a long sigh.

“Mary, madame. I see you are in need of a hairdresser? I can help” the woman asked in a thick French accent.

“Well, I was just going to wear it in twists,” Jane muttered.

“Twists are pretty, but maybe something more elaborate to go with such a detailed outfit. Trust me, mademoiselle, I’ve touched many heads like yours,” she suggests. A knowing smile crossed her face, disarming Jane. She spoke with such old wisdom that Jane immediately nodded.

Mary whispered something to the maids, and they left. She gently began to take Jane’s hair down, twirling the soft curls around themselves. The maids returned with curling rods and other hair products. They started a fire in the fireplace and quietly dismissed themselves. Now it was just Mary and Jane.

“You do this style often?” Mary asked.

“Yes… when I’m not wrapping it up. Can you tell?” Jane replied shyly.

“The hair has memory for sure. It’s very healthy—that’s a hard thing to maintain when you have so little product to work with. I made these creams myself. I use them on la petite Eloise. Her hair is thick and not quite like other little girls her age. It requires some work, but it’s very beautiful. She only allows me to touch it.”

“It used to be even harder, so I would just wrap it. It was hard to keep it soft at times. I had to make my own product before…” Jane stopped herself. Was she talking too much? This woman hadn’t asked for her life story. And why did she suddenly feel so self-conscious about what Mary might think of her? Jane tucked her lips as she snuck a glance at the woman in the mirror.

“Before… go on,” Mary chuckled.

Jane cleared her throat. “Before I met the gentleman I traveled with.”

“Ahh… Monsieur Roman. I’ve heard many stories about him. He is the Duke’s longest friend, and he’s supposed to be very fierce. Sir Roman is he your…?” Mary trailed off as she parted Jane's hair. Jane looked down into her lap. Would it be in bad taste to say the truth? They weren’t married. Truthfully, she didn’t think it would matter; they would go back to being pirates after this. Pirates don’t have wives.

“My companion. M-my friend,” Jane blurted. Women don’t have male ‘friends’, especially not in high society, but it’s not like she had a ring to say otherwise.

“I see. Well, he certainly will be able to tell you a thing or two about Paris. He used to frequent Paris quite a bit. I’ve seen him around”

Jane’s mind went blank. Why had she suddenly forgotten how to speak to a woman? She needed more friends, that’s for sure. “Yes. He brought me here as a surprise. D-do you like Paris?”

“Like? Sometimes. I think it’s easier to see the beauty in a place when you don’t live there. I can at least admire the architecture.”

“Yes. The buildings are a sight to see.”

Mary brushed Jane’s hair in sections, clipping up most of it while pulling a small piece out. She walked over to the fire and placed a long metal rod above the flames. After about a minute, she returned to the styling chair and wrapped a piece of cloth around Jane’s hair. She looped the hair around the heated rod, using the cloth as a barrier. After twenty seconds, she released the hair to reveal a large ringlet. Jane gasped.

“Wow,” she said, touching her hair gently with the tips of her fingers. She didn’t want to mess up the style, but it amazed her. Somehow, it made her hair look longer yet the curl was more dramatic. She’d never manipulated her hair in that way. “You are going to do that all over my head, just like this?!”

Mary burst into laughter. “You look like little Eloise after I do her hair. She jumps out of her seat and then starts dancing and posing in the mirror. Of course, mademoiselle, it’s why I’m here. Now hold still,” Mary said, resting the rod on a thick piece of cloth and pulling out another section of hair.

Jane could feel her excitement bubbling over as Mary continued to work on her hair. She couldn’t remember the last time she got excited about something like this. Having her hair done was a luxury she wasn’t sure she could part with.

“So… what part of France are you from?”

“I am from Haiti, but I came to Paris when I was about eight years old. I grew up here in Palais Royal with the former Duke—the King’s brother. My mother was a dressmaker, and I was her little assistant.”

“Ah, I see. Do you live here in the Palais? Or away?”

“Oui, in the servants’ quarters. Though I have my own apartment due to Eloise’s favor. The Duke treats his staff quite well,” Mary spoke with a relaxed tone, as if Jane were her longtime girlfriend. She liked that. The other maids seemed so high-strung and tense.

“I’m not from here… in Europe, I mean. I’m from Trinidad. I came to Europe as a child too,” Jane admitted. She felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She wasn’t about to pretend to be something she wasn’t.

“An island girl like myself? Who would have thought. What a peculiar place for us to be, no?”

“Peculiar indeed.”

“So I take it you’re not a former Kings gift? Or rather a Bastard to a Duke or Marquis?” Mary said playfully, with a suspicious tone.

Jane held back a laugh. “What gave it away?”

“You look me in the eye when you talk.”

Jane pondered that for a second. She remembered those days slaving away over a stove, serving a dish to people who couldn’t see her. She was invisible. Over time, that invisibility became a comfort.

“And if they were to look you in the eye, they would only be looking at their reflection in it,” Jane quipped absentmindedly. Mary let out a high-pitched laugh.

“What was your job before this?” Mary asked, working quickly and already finishing the back and crown of Jane’s head.

“Cook. I have fingertips of steel. I could probably wrap my hand around that rod and not feel a thing,” Jane joked.

“Explains the humor. Well, Madame Jane, I can tell that you and I are going to get along just fine,” Mary grinned knowingly.

The two fell into chatter and banter like friends. Mary was funny, and she seemed to know so much about everything. Jane even had to excuse herself from cursing a few times as it slipped out. Mary found it funny. The connection could only be explained as the harmony of having a conversation with another woman—there was nothing quite like it. And while Roman was the keeper of her secrets, he preferred to pacify and soothe. But talking to a woman—there was something almost spiritual about it. The idea that someone would just “get it,” whatever that “it” might be. The comfort in knowing that somewhere, your stories lined up, even if just for an instant.

Mary pinned Jane’s hair in a rolling pattern that accentuated her long neck. She left a singular thick curl hanging down against her shoulder. Then she dusted Jane's hairline with a pink sparkly gold powder that matched her pale pink dress and makeup. Jane gasped when she saw herself in the mirror.

“What do you call this style?!”

“The tête de mouton, or sheep's head. The ladies in Paris love this style.”

“I see why. Wow, I’ve never looked like this before. I mean, you practically did magic!” Jane exclaimed, brushing a finger against the curl on her shoulder.

“I am very pleased you like it, madame. Now one moment. The governess wants to meet with you before breakfast. I’ll see you soon,” Mary said, stepping back and curtsying before leaving the room.

Jane stood in front of the mirror, eyeing every detail. She’d never looked so beautiful. She pondered if the novelty of being dressed and styled to perfection wore off for wealthy women. She could never tire of this—of feeling pretty.

The governess broke her out of her trance with a clearing of her throat. Jane turned around and curtsied. The governess returned the gesture and walked further into the room. Jane couldn’t help but feel that these sorts of greetings were growing tiresome. The governess was a serious woman but kind enough. “Don’t worry about curtsying back to the help. A short, quick curtsy to ladies of the court is fine. More dramatic and precise curtsies are suitable for nobility. Just remember to bow to the Duke and Duchess. They are to be referred to as 'Your Grace.' We will go over other things for your Versailles trip. Are you ready?” she said.

Jane sensed that the governess was in a rush, so she didn’t bother to ask any questions yet. “I am.”

“Splendid. Follow me,” said Beatrice. Their heels tapped against shiny winding staircases. It took every bit of five minutes to reach the entrance of the dining room. Two guards stood on either side of the double doors and opened them for the pair.

“Madamoiselle Jane of London,” a white-wigged announcer called from the back of the room. It nearly startled Jane, but she stepped into the path of the room and walked through the doors. A ridiculously long table, which nearly stretched across the entire room, revealed little Eloise, the Duke, the Duchess, Roman, and Caden. Each corner of the room had a guard, and a line of cooks stood near the entrance of the kitchen. Everyone stood as the Duke and his wife joined hands and walked closer to where Jane stood. She bowed alongside the governess, muttering “Your Grace” and “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, I can’t help it!” Charlotte lunged for Jane and wrapped her arms around her. She was a pale woman with curly, frizzy strawberry-blonde hair, large downturned green eyes, a button nose, and a bow-shaped mouth. She had a single mole on her right cheek. Slightly shorter than Jane, her comically large bust nearly cut off Jane’s circulation when she squeezed her so tight.

“Hi, call me Charlotte! Arnaud has told me so much about you two. You’re even more gorgeous than Roman could have ever described in the letter. I’m so happy to have you here!” the woman squeaked. Her British accent surprised Jane. Blinking at her with a flustered look, Jane smiled at the radiant woman before her. Charlotte had a porcelain-doll quality, and her bubbly personality fit her well; however, Jane hadn’t expected her voice to be so high.

“Nice to meet you, Charlotte.”

The Duke offered his hand for a shake, and Jane took it, happy to be over with the formalities. “Arnaud, It’s so nice to finally meet you. I hope you enjoy your stay here in Paris.” His French accent was thick, but she understood him clearly. Arnaud was tall, almost as tall as Roman. He had a thick beard, slanted almond eyes, a broad nose, full downturned lips, and dark skin. For a moment, the concept didn’t register, and a blank stare crept onto Jane’s face as she held his hand.

“You’re the Duke ?” she asked, dumbfounded.

A knowing smile crept onto Arnaud’s face. “I have my paperwork to prove it if you don’t believe me.”

“No—sorry. I mean… you know what? Never mind,” Jane scrambled to find the words.

“Relax. I get it. Not what you were expecting,” Arnaud laughed.

“Well… no,” Jane sputtered.

Suddenly, something tiny and furry ran through the gap between Jane’s feet, causing her to nearly stumble off balance. Arnaud caught her. A tiny body pushed past her feet on all fours, yelling in French.

“Mauvais chat! Come back here!” Eloise shouted.

“Good heavens!” the Governess gasped, clutching her chest. Eloise was chasing a white fluffy cat around the expensive dining room on all fours, meowing like a cat.

“Eloise! What did I tell you about chasing that cat?! Get off the floor! You’re terrorizing the poor thing!” Charlotte dodged for the little girl, crawling on the ground herself as Eloise chased the cat under the dining table. It was truly a sight to see, as most high born mothers did not bother reprimanding or even parenting their children.

Jane wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to laugh, but she had never seen anything like it in her life. Then the guards started chasing after all three of them—the cat, Eloise, and the Duchess—trying to prevent an accident and stop the cat from running up the drapes.

Arnaud turned to Jane with a tired look. “One thing I can say—I am never bored in this house.”

“I can see that,” Jane chuckled as he walked her to her seat next to Roman.

Roman pulled her chair out for her, and she took a seat, taking in all the wonderful dishes. A male servant greeted her and set a plate in front of her. The Duke sat across from them as if utter chaos wasn’t unfolding in front of them and started loading Jane’s plate with food. No one of Arnaud’s status had ever served her food.

She could feel Roman draw closer as he whispered, “You look stunning.”

“I hope so after how long it took to get ready,” she smiled.

Roman took her hand and kissed the back of it. Jane looked to Caden, who had been quiet as a mouse this entire time, watching Charlotte crawl past him with a determined look on her face as she grabbed hold of Eloise’s leg. Suddenly, Roman shifted in his seat and caught Eloise with one hand, lifting her in the air. There was a tiny shrill of her voice before she went limp in his iron grip.

“Pas juste!” she pouted. (No fair)

To Jane’s surprise, Roman muttered, “La vie n'est pas juste,” chuckling at the cat darting underneath the chairs before it was caught by a guard. (Life is not fair)

“Maybe for you,” Eloise teased.

Charlotte grabbed the child and quickly swatted her on the bottom, though it made no difference given how thick the child’s dress was. Instead, she just snickered as the governess took her to her room. Charlotte fixed her hair and straightened her dress before sitting down next to her husband. Order was restored to the room as Charlotte regained her breath. Arnaud looked to his wife and whispered something to her that caused her to giggle.

“I apologize that you all had to be subjected to that chaos. Eloise is a very advanced child, which means that left to her own devices, she will attempt to dominate whoever or whatever is in her vicinity,” Arnaud admitted. He almost looked proud of it, which made Jane look away to avoid laughing even harder.

“We hope the food is to your liking,” Charlotte added. They dug into the food, and at first, there was just the quiet of chewing and plate scraping. Then Caden decided to break the silence.

“So, Arnaud, how did you and Roman meet?” asked Caden. Jane finally got a good look at him now. A year’s worth of grime had been washed from his light chocolate hair, and he looked every bit of his teenage years—so baby-faced and bushy-tailed. He wore a matching brown jacket with black trousers. His hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. He looked uncomfortable, which was understandable. Although Roman and Jane had interacted with nobility in the past, Caden had never even seen a palace up close. Jane would be sure to check in with him when she had the chance.

“Roman and I are what one might say—adopted. We have a very similar backstory. We met when I took a trip to Germany as a young boy. The king was negotiating with their territory, and I saw someone my age playing in the ballroom. No introductions needed. Instant friends.”

“And he’s been a pain in my arse ever since,” Roman grumbled.

“Who are you telling? I can’t get rid of you,” Arnaud bantered.

“So I suspect your home is a bit further away?” Jane asked curiously. She hoped she wasn’t being too forward, but she had to know.

“Sierra Leone, actually.”

“I see,” a sad expression crossed her face. He was indeed a long way from home, just as she and Roman and Mary were—a feeling so unique from regular homesickness.

“What about yourself?” asked Arnaud.

“Trinidad, originally.”

One of his brows twitched in surprise. “How on earth did you two meet?”

“He… saved my life, actually.”

Roman rubbed the back of his neck. Jane didn’t understand his hesitance. “Long story…”

Jane took his hand and placed it on his lap subtly, not wanting to draw attention. It was reassurance. She felt safe to open up a bit. Arnaud and Charlotte were already drawn in, judging by their concerned expressions.

Jane cleared her throat. No turning back now. “Yes… he found me. The ship I was traveling on had a terrible accident. I was floating on a life raft for God knows how long. He found me and helped me get better. That was over a year ago. I owe my life to him.”

“You’ve saved my life as well. You have no debt with me, I assure you,” Roman muttered back quietly.

“Wow… what a strange way to meet a person. I’m so very glad you’re here with us, Jane,” said Charlotte.

“Who are you in relation to Roman?” Arnaud asked Caden.

“Roman took me in when I was young. He’s looked after me ever since. If you start meeting a lot of his friends, you’ll notice a pattern: everybody owes them their life. He nursed me back to health too. I think he has an affinity for finding the strays of the world,” Caden joked.

Arnaud let out a quick snort. “Very maternal, that one.”

“Now you’re pushing it,” Roman warned Arnaud. He chortled at Roman’s irritation.

“What about you, Charlotte? How did you and Arnaud meet, and how long have you been together?” asked Jane.

“A tavern in Southwark. His carriage broke down, and he came inside to have dinner. I served him. That was seven years ago now,” Charlotte smiled as she remembered the day fondly. Jane was even more confused.

“Served him?” Jane tilted her head.

“Why yes, I can only sell the highborn act for so long. I served beer to drunkards for a living, darling. My father was a farmer,” she giggled.

And there it was. Charlotte had a very approachable quality about her. Despite how pretty she was, there was a carefreeness to her that only someone working in the general public could have.

But how on earth was that marriage approved? Let alone them being from two very different parts of the world. However, Jane didn’t want her questions to come off as rude. She’s asked enough questions. One thing was for certain: they were an intriguing pair. Opposites certainly attract. She could tell Charlotte was the wild one, and Arnaud was the relaxed one. Perhaps she and Roman weren’t so different when it came to opposites. Jane had a tendency to be more reserved and withdrawn. It took time for her to get out of her shell. Roman was more straightforward, rougher around the edges. He wasn’t loud, but he wasn’t quiet either. He was just right for her, just opposite enough to make her a better person.

Breakfast was a surprising delight. The conversation was hysterical. Roman and Arnaud, as storytellers, were quite the pair. They were almost like siblings the way they shared mannerisms and inflections at times. Before they knew it, they had been sitting at the table for two hours.

Plans were made. There would be an official welcome dinner with all members of the Duke and Duchess's court. There were plenty of people that Jane hadn’t met yet. After that, Charlotte raved about the Opera with the live orchestra that she wished to invite Jane and Roman to. Jane had never been to a ballet, nor had she seen an orchestra play live before.

Until then, Arnaud took them on an expansive tour of the palace, which took every bit of an hour. She had no idea how or why the home of someone had to be so big. But it’s easy to forget just how many people lived in the palace: servants, soldiers, teachers, cooks, doctors and nurses, animal attendants, gardeners, and more. Not to mention the courtiers and advisors who lived there simply to keep the nobles company. The acreage was just as expansive. There was a vast greenhouse, gardens, orangeries, and horse pastures. Each bedroom was practically a mini museum, with portraits of the long line of royalty that once lived in the palace. Thankfully, there weren’t any in the bedroom they shared.

The rest of the day would be spent at her leisure. Charlotte decided to ride horses with Eloise. Arnaud and Roman went to have a drink on the balcony. They had a lot of catching up to do. She took this opportunity to have tea time, which apparently involved relaxing in a room lined with oil paintings, satin pillows, and floor-to-ceiling windows that swung open like doors. She brought Caden along with her.

“Are you okay?” Jane asked him quietly. The boy had his feet swinging over the side of the couch as he stared up at the mural above him.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked with an inquisitive tone.

“Because I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I think they’re a bit strange. Not my idea of nobility. But I guess that’s a rather good thing, considering that with a warrant, Europe would be searching for Roman with dogs by now,” Caden scoffed.

“I think they’re rather sweet. Though I can’t imagine how people must talk about them behind their backs. Those poor people,” Jane muttered quietly.

“She probably gets the worst of it. She said that she’s a commoner, right?”

“Yes, which is why I don’t know how it happened. He must have some sort of favor. I don’t imagine an old king being nice enough to grant somebody their true love. It’s always duty and sacrifice with that bunch.”

“Rich people problems. Beats me,” Caden shrugged.

“How quickly you forget that you are, in fact, a rich man now. Though you’ve barely spent any of it quite yet. I’m very proud of you. Don’t let Rory set an example,” Jane sighed. Rory had suddenly decided he needed a new fur coat collection for the winter, which wouldn’t be for months.

“Why thank you Mother,” Caden teased. Jane chuckled. At times, Caden really did act like a teenager, which warmed her heart.

The room fell silent as she thought about their arrival for the trip. She understood Roman wanting to visit an old friend. But this was such a stark difference from what she was used to. With the way he talked about royalty, she never expected him to have any friends that were still affiliated. She felt there was more than one reason as to why they were here. She didn’t sense any malice or ill intent, thankfully, but he was so subliminal about the whole ordeal.

“Has Roman ever talked to you about Paris?”

“Taking you there, yes. Said something about how he had something special planned for you and to be on my best behavior, blah blah blah,” Caden sighed, turning over to face the cushion of the couch. “I’m taking a nap. Those bloody white-wigged bastards woke me up at 5 in the morning to dress me like some stupid baby. I’m tired.”

Jane scoffed and chugged the rest of her tea before retreating to her bedroom for the afternoon. Roman hadn’t come back yet, and she was starting to miss him. She had been informed that he’d gone into town, which surprised her. She would have gone with him had he asked her.

Later that evening, as the sun went down, Jane prepared for dinner with the court. This was an observed dinner with everyone from the Duke and Duchess's court included. Touch-ups were made to Jane’s hair and makeup. She changed into a deep blue dress. The bust, sleeves, and creases of the dress were trimmed with delicate black lace. The skirt was dramatic and wide, with flared sleeves, and the forearm of the dress was flared. She liked that this dress contrasted with the light, airy nature of the first dress. The finishing touch was a black lace choker, a smudge o black on the waterline, and a fake mole on her cheek. Face dots were especially popular here in France, and some women would cover their faces with them. Jane opted for just one. She changed into black heels, and a sheer glitter was added to her hairline. A matte dark red lipstick gave the look the perfect finish. A knock on the door grabbed Jane’s attention. It was Roman, holding a box in his hand. He had changed, and his hair fell down his back in damp waves.

“That will be all for now, ladies. Thank you,” she excused the group. The maids curtsied and left. Roman shut the bedroom door and closed the distance between them, standing behind the chair she sat in. The two of them faced a large mirror that nearly spanned the entire wall. “You are never wearing pirate hand-me-downs again. I forbid it when you look like that.”

A small smirk ghosted across Jane’s mouth before she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Where have you been all day?”

“Oh, have I upset you with my absence?” Roman slyly leaned down and kissed the side of her neck. It took everything in her not to fall into him the way she usually would, to submit to the heat of his touch as she always had.

“I missed you. I had nobody to talk to. Caden went to sleep. It would have been nice to have company. I don’t know my way around here,” she pouted. Roman brushed his lips against her soap-scented skin.

“I went to the city to buy you something special to wear with your dinner dress,” he taunted. Carefully, he twirled the box in his hand and placed it in her lap. He pulled out a smaller second box and placed it on the table.

“You can’t open the little box quite yet. But this one is for tonight,” he explained. Jane hesitantly took the larger box, all blue and wrapped in red ribbon. She pulled off the silk and lifted it open to find a sizable necklace filled with sapphires and diamonds. She gasped at the way it glinted against the fireplace light.

“Roman… this must have cost you a fortune,” her hand flew to her mouth as she lifted it up, feeling the heaviness of it.

“Well, I couldn’t let you make your appearance without something special. These sorts of dinners are all about status, no matter how much they deny it. Having something nice on is a great way to avoid being treated poorly or ignored. It’s also a fantastic icebreaker. I can’t imagine what I’ll do if you are mistreated and I’d rather not find out. This will be a good conversation starter. I think it will match with your light blue dress. You can wear it for your portrait tomorrow.”

It took a moment for Jane to register what he was saying at first. “...My portrait?” she asked.

“Yes, your portrait. Here, let me see how it looks.” Jane reached up to take off her choker. He gently pulled the necklace from her grasp and placed it around her neck. She turned her neck to admire the way it sparkled. Truthfully, Jane wanted to inquire about the portrait, but there was so much going on at once that the thought slipped her mind when the jewelry hit her skin.

Her fingers graced the smooth stone. “It’s beautiful... I love it,” she murmured.

“ You wear it well”, he compliments.

“Will you walk with me to dinner?”.

“It would be my honor.”

They dressed Roman in what was called the habit à la française: his coat, waistcoat, breeches, silk stockings, jabot, cotton shirt, decorative cuffs, and cravat. His coat and breeches were a deep gray color. It complemented her outfit, and that’s when she realized that the people who dressed them corresponded. Beatrice escorted them to the great hall, and the doors opened for them, revealing a full room of people that looked like they wanted to eat her alive.

Roman POV

When you were presented before a court, you were sized up. It was one of the things he hated most about prestigious society. Roman wasn’t here for his health. A future for Jane must be secured, and in order to do that, he would be metaphorically offering the love of his life up to vultures. Except these vultures—more akin to peacocks—were flashy, rich, perfectly powdered, yet rotten on the inside. This would be their reality for the next two and a half hours.

The royal announcer called their names, ringing the dinner bell to hungry hounds as hollow, glistening, depraved eyes landed on the pair of them. Caden had already snuck his way into the room, his youth allowing him to sink into the background in a way they couldn’t. They paid their respects to the Duke and Duchess. Next came their courtiers and other members of rank. Jane’s bow was perfect. Charlotte kissed both sides of her cheek to show favor, something to sway the court. There would be a wait for dinner, and the great hall was full of bigwigs talking about feeble nonsense.

There were whispers, snickers, glares, and stares. Most of them were from the women, which was to be expected. Roman wasn’t particularly fond of the men and their obvious gawking. He and Jane stood near the dual windows overlooking the courtyard. Carts of beverages were rolled around. Roman grabbed a glass of champagne, while Jane chose water. She lifted the glass to her lips, her eyes widening as it fizzed against her palate.

“There’s something wrong with this water,” she warned.

“There’s nothing wrong. It’s supposed to be that way,” he chuckled at her shock as she cautiously took another sip.

“It’s bubbly… why is it bubbly?”

“Vichy water. It’s sparkling mineral water from Vichy, France, from the volcanic region. It has salts and healing properties. Sometimes they use it to treat gout or an upset stomach. Some people just like the taste.” He watched as she took small sips. She shrugged it off, seemingly satisfied with the sensation of the fizzing.

She fidgets, “Should I make conversation?” she asked hesitantly, looking around the room.

“No. Let them come to you.”

“How do you even know it’s me they’re staring at? It could easily be you. Pretty men are a rarity.”

A knowing smile crossed Roman’s face. “I’m not much of a crowd favorite. I wasn’t particularly known for my charming attitude prior to you. You’re shiny and new; I’m old news.”

Before Jane could even protest, a woman walked up. It was Madam Bernard. She was a woman in her late 30s, a member of Charlotte’s court and an official lady-in-waiting. Madam Bernard was a gossip but usually the most curious. She was also bitter that Roman would not bed her in his younger years. He nearly stepped protectively in front of Jane when her ghostly powdered face came into view. He resisted.

“Lady Jane, a pleasure to meet you. I go by Madam Bernard,” she smiled at Jane. Her teeth were always strangely sharp at the corners—an unnerving quality. Jane curtsied briefly.

“I believe we have met, Monsieur,” Bernard turned to Roman, a wicked glint bouncing off her eyes. Roman nodded stoically, not giving her the satisfaction of a true greeting.

“Where on earth did you get a necklace like that?”

“It was a gift,” Jane smiled, her disposition flustered.

Madam Bernard motioned toward Jane’s outfit. “It’s absolutely marvelous. And your dress… blue is your color, my darling.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Jane smiled. The room could smell her nerves. But this wasn’t Roman’s time to step in—not yet. Jane was more capable than most. This room, these people, were no different from the English—hungry with an appetite that would never be fulfilled. Jane knew how to navigate it. Two and a half hours. Just two and a half hours, and they’d be alone again. He was capable. She was capable.

So, with reluctance, he allowed their conversation to flow. He watched from afar. Eventually, Madam Bernard carried her off to her den of gossipers, and Jane was off and away. She mingled. She laughed. She twirled around in her dress to choruses of “Ooh la la!” and “Magnifique!”

One glance at Arnaud across the room. He looked miserable—he usually was at these kinds of gatherings. He cast Roman a knowing look as he held up a glass to his friend from afar. Roman did the same. Caden wandered over to him, snacking on a tray of berries now.

To Roman’s surprise, Jane had come out of her shell. She worked half the room. People came up in droves to speak with her. A kiss on the back of her hand had him adjusting his collar to keep himself cool. Jane was receptive, inviting, smiley, polite, careful. There was no doubt about it: Jane was beautiful. No matter how much anyone tried to ignore it, no matter how much she fit outside the lines of the standard for the region, Jane was beauty with a face. Parisians took eye-fulls of beautiful women with no shame. He also understood that there was a novelty to Jane. Nobody in the court looked like her. That was a cause for curiosity. Still, there was a thin line between intriguing, obsession, and possession. Nobility liked to own more than anything. But she knew that. Jane was a smart girl.

The courtiers were strange the way they struck up conversation. Topics were never meaningful. They believed their leaders to be invested more than they really were. Aside from who they served, they thought of themselves as supporting characters. They treated the room as their stage, believing others were paying more attention than they actually were. Maybe they were right, because Roman couldn’t help but notice how peculiar they were. Men would come up to Jane and ask her about the weather or talk about how hot the room was. They would randomly include her in conversations she wasn’t part of. They would say, “There are a lot of people here today,” with not so much as a hello. Jane remained unperturbed —careful, receptive.

Dinner was ready, and droves of chefs and servants flooded the hall to prepare the table. The Duke and Duchess would sit first. As Jane and Roman were seated, he could see the wheels turning in her mind.

“Do not touch your food until the Duke starts eating. Then you may eat. Use your utensils from the outside in. You start with the utensil furthest from the plate. Your fork is down on the table between bites,” he whispered quietly to her. He placed a napkin in her lap and then his. He could see a worried look on Jane’s face.

“If you get lost, just copy me,” he soothed. She gave him a quick nod and turned her attention back to the Duke, who quickly thanked everyone for joining him for the evening.

Dinner went on quietly. Roman shared quick glances with Jane. The man next to her struck up conversations about fashion and his favorite dishes. Jane chose Coq au Vin—or rather, the “red chicken,” which the gentleman found funny. He knew she didn’t speak French, so he ran down a list of French cuisines, sharing his favorites as well. This interaction was the least condescending or infantilizing conversation he’d heard directed at her all evening. It gave Roman room to relax.

After the main course, there would have to be a wait for dessert. Roman planned to excuse himself to the restroom, but a commotion could be heard behind the double doors of the great hall. In walked King Joseph De Pointe. The entire room rose as his presence was announced. He had aged severely since Roman last saw him decades ago. It was as if a ghost had walked into the room. He stood about 5'10", medium-built with a bit of a stomach from old age, and he had a militant walk. As he walked to the center of the room, everyone he passed bowed in his honor. The Duke and Duchess swiftly walked toward him and bowed deeply at his presence. He whispered something to the Duke, and they both looked at Jane. Now Roman knew why he had come so early into the trip; he wasn’t supposed to meet Jane for at least another two weeks.

From the outside looking in, it might not seem that a commoner would mean so much to the King, that he would interrupt dinner to meet her. But he would. The Persians are just that vain, and nobility is even vainer. It matters that Jane is beautiful; it matters that Jane is poised. It matters how they look together. And while a favor is owed, he has the final say. He who is associated with the crown is someone of purpose and beauty. One has to know how to perform.

The old man walked across the large open circle of the connecting dining tables that filled the room and headed straight for Jane. Roman whispered quickly, “Do not look him directly in the eye.”

“Why?!” she whispered.

“It’s an invitation.”

James's eyes widen before she lowers them. The King now stood directly in front of her. Roman bows first, followed by Jane, who says, “Your Majesty.” His eyes scan Jane as she nervously stares past him. The intensity of his gaze prompts Roman to gently wrap his arm around Jane’s waist. The King looks up at Roman as if he has suddenly appeared from thin air.

“Très bien,” he calls to the Duke over his shoulder.

He falters on his feet as little arms wrap around his leg. Startled, he bursts into a hearty chuckle as he picks up Eloise and holds her in his arms. She is happy to see her adoptive grandfather. She has no inkling of the atrocities and chaos he has caused in other countries. She does not understand his alignment with eugenics or the people he has left hungry in the streets of Paris. All she knows is the warmth and adoration of her grandfather, who is not of her blood. In some sick and twisted way, it is a testament to how powerful love can be and proof of how many people are undeserving of it. Maybe karma isn’t real. Maybe one’s own torturer is not holed up in a cognitive doom, regretful, reflective, and repentant. Even the worst of people live their lives and move on. At the very least, their victims should, too. And that’s why he must take the life Jane is owed.

Whispers hum across the court as people notice the interaction between Jane and the King. They wonder about her importance. This is a good thing; it will earn favor—anything to make her interactions within the court easier.

The King stays for dessert, and there’s another 20 to 30 minutes of mingling before people begin to retreat for the night. Proper farewells are given to those who require them. Roman escorts Jane back to their guest suite.He watches as she removes parts of her outfit while storming down the hall, moving quickly as they pass their posted Butler.

“30 minutes please, Joffrey,” says Roman.

“Very well, sir,” the butler responds.

Roman shuts the door, and Jane stands in front of the mirror, angrily taking the pins out of her hair. Her hair falls into long, voluminous curls that cascade onto her shoulders. She reaches for her corset, too proud to ask him for help.

“Let me get that,” Roman insists.

“NO!,” she barks.

Roman retreats from the sting of her tone and tosses his jacket on the floor as he sits on their bed. He runs a hand down his face, knowing he’s in for an earful. “Tell me what I’ve done.”

“What sort of agreement do you have with the Duke that the king of France is having a staring contest with me in front of a hundred fucking people?” she sneers.

Roman sighs.“Jane…relax.”

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “Are you planning on giving me away? Are you trying to send me off with one of those rich old men?” she presses.

He stands at the accusation.“What!? N-No. I love you. Why would I do that?”

Her breathing is labored. Her eyes shoot around the room as if she’s coming up with a plan. “I won’t be his mistress or anybody’s mistress. I’m not marrying anybody you set me up with. You can act like it’s for the best or you’re doing me some favor by whoring me out but I’ll sooner die! If we’re done, then have the guts to say it, but I’m not staying here if—”

Roman’s eyes nearly buck out of his head as he rushes into her space, holding his hands up in surrender as he tries to reason with her. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!!! Let’s start over,”He can see the beginnings of that familiar panicked and trapped look returning to her—one he hasn’t seen in a long time, and it turns his stomach. He wishes not to return to that dynamic.

“Why would you think that I would ever send you away? You are my heart's keeper, Dove. You know this,” Roman says, pulling her hands into his and pressing the backs of her fists to his mouth. She turns her head away in protest. He gently grabs her chin and holds it between his fingers. Her eyes are glassy with tears as she tries to cover sadness with anger.

“I’m not going anywhere. You aren’t going anywhere. You are mine as long as you allow it. Let me explain it all to you. You’ll let me explain?” He presses his forehead to hers. His tone is quiet, just above a whisper—a trick he learned to ease her anxiousness. If she could barely hear him, then she would have to focus on listening. It could stall her panic and help her calm down. She hesitantly nods but he can feel the panic steaming off of her.

“I came here to secure your future—our future. I wrote to Arnaud weeks ago and asked for his favor in securing an honorific lordship title. Arnaud holds favor with the King. The King has the final say on who gets appointed a title, so he came to see what you looked like and will make his final decision soon. He wants to see how well you handle yourself in high society before he agrees. The only reason he made haste with the request was because I made a sizable donation to his church. This tactic is common in people who want something from him. People looking for political immunity or people who want to sway his opinion,” Roman explains.

Jane’s eyes shift from confusion to sharp understanding. However, she pulls away. “I thought you never wanted this life again. Why are you going back to what caused you so much pain? We have money. We don’t need these people.”

“You’re right; we do have money. However, we have no home. We have no property besides Totoguam which isn’t adequate enough in size if we were to settle roots there. We don’t even have bank accounts or investments. We will always have to hoard our stash; otherwise, we risk being suspected of criminal activity. If I go back to that ship and sail to another pirate-filled port after all this time, they will know. I’ll be a walking target. I am done putting you in harm's way. I want stability for you. If it means that you are safe, it will always outweigh the cost,” he pleads. Jane’s gaze switches back and forth between his eyes. She’s reading him. Confusion is still etched on her face. He may not win her over.

Jane shakes her head in denial. “But you love the sea. Why subject the rest of your life to being around these people you hate? That’s a miserable existence. Shouldn’t your happiness matter too?”

“We would rarely make appearances. It would only be the most necessary parties that we attend, maybe three to four times a year. The countryside is three hours away from here, near the beach. We won’t have to worry about keeping up with the Paris court. We can make our home whatever we want. It can be a sanctuary for all our brothers when they need it. If we want to sail, we sail. If we don’t want to sail, then we don’t. My point is that we will have something to come back to Jane. Out there in the open sea—it’s all temporary. In a split second you could lose it all. This will give us the opportunity to have a real home. A true home, Jane,” he urges. Jane goes quiet, and Roman’s stomach sinks; she is still not sold on the idea.

He sighs a defeated breath as he steps back to give her space. Her body language is open but defensive. He drops her hands gently. “I should have consulted with you first. Maybe I didn’t because I knew you would be hesitant. I didn’t go about this the right way. It was never my intent to scare you. It’s just that ever since we met, I’ve started to really think about the future, Jane. You must understand, before you came into my life, I didn’t bother picturing what life would look like ten years from then. I lived moment to moment. But now that I have you, I must do this right. I must seize this opportunity to give you the life you deserve,” he says. She’s slightly disarmed, and her eyes trail down to his mouth and then back up to his eyes. It was funny that even during a disagreement he could still see the love she had for him. That ultimately, they both wanted to understand each other even when their views were different. He loved her…

“You’ve sprung this on me very suddenly. You’re right; you should have consulted with me. You have made your points and I can see how you would feel the way you do. I need some time to think about this. I can’t make any promises yet,” she crosses her arms hesitantly. She looks down at the carpet. Her lips twitched as if she wanted to say more.

Roman says nothing but continues to study her. She walks back over to the bed, putting her head in her hands. “This is a big step. And while we may be afforded solitude, there is still a duty to be fulfilled. How would we be any better than the people who have hurt us? No matter how low in rank, we would be part of this system.”

He walks to her space, standing in front of her. “We would be part of the French gentry, which are titled non-nobles. I would indeed have a vague association with the King, and that is something I’m willing to sacrifice morally to ensure your future. I’ve pondered this for many nights. If there has to be a bad person in this situation, then allow me to be the monster. I won’t pretend that I’m not selfish when it comes to you. You make me impulsive…you make me uncooperative and irrational at times. Maybe even most of the time. My condolences to whoever gets in the way. But I…I must have you, Jane. You and you only.”

His words burn in his mouth, but from the ensnared gaze she sends his way, she is on fire. She plays with her necklace and hair, biting her lip as she contemplates what he said.

“I’m not giving you an answer right away, no matter how convincing you are. I need time to think,” she mutters and stands. He doesn’t know why she feels the need to put her foot down, but he can at least afford her this. He’s already made the mistake of being sneaky. Now he must pay.

“That’s fine,” he says, stepping closer, and she doesn’t move. Another step, and she doesn’t budge. He goes in for a kiss, and she dodges it at the last minute, turning around so he can undo her corset.

Jane's POV

Jane doesn’t think she’s ever been so conflicted in her life. Deep down, she can’t believe that he would want to leave his pirate years behind. What about Caden? What about Adhar? What about everyone? Everyone had a different idea of what their future would look like. William left to make things right with his wife. Other pirates, like Daniel and Gregory, retired alongside dozens of other mates. Rory wanted to keep sailing, and so did Caden. Roman, being a lord, also meant she would be his wife eventually. Could she do that? Could she do it well? How much of their lives would they give up to conform to this new standard? If she married him, would he change as they fell into domesticity? Would there not be enough excitement to keep him interested? Worst of all, what if she began to feel trapped? If she married him, he would own her. Could she take that chance?

Roman wasn’t there when she woke up. The servants informed her that he had picked out what he wanted her to wear for the portrait: a light blue dress and no makeup. As she sat to get her hair done, she noticed that Mary hadn’t brought any heating tools. “No sheep’s head style today?”

Mary shook her head. “Monsieur Roman requested that you wear it down for your picture. But don’t worry; I will give you a more elaborate style before the show,” she promised.

“So be it,” Jane rolled her eyes at the mention of him. As annoyed as she was with him, the requests warmed her heart. She remembered those quiet nights on the boat when it felt like they were the only two people in the world. Perhaps she was scared of change.

Mary wet her hair and wrapped her coils around her fingers, section by section. Each strand was left shiny and wet, waiting to air dry. She took breakfast in the courtyard to speed up the process. Caden spent most of his days in the library, and he showed it to her. There were so many books and documents to choose from. She spent lunch there before she was sent off for her portrait. She didn’t even understand why she agreed to this, but it was something to do.

She was escorted down a winding staircase that led to a marble hall. All of the rooms on this floor were open. At the end of the hall, she could see the Duke sitting next to someone. Arnaud was in front of a canvas.

“Your Grace?” Jane called from the doorway.

“Ah, Jane. Come inside. Make yourself comfortable,” he said.

Jane walked into a room full of paint and plants. Every piece of furniture was covered in sheets. The windows were open, letting in a lukewarm breeze. Jane gasped as she saw portraits of people, animals, fruits, houses, and a baby who looked a lot like Eloise.

“You did these?!”

“Of course. Who else?” Arnaud smiled. The man next to him started to mix paints, solvents, and thinners. The smell was strong, which was why the windows were open. She didn’t mind it.

“Can I sit here?” Jane motioned for a seat by the window. Arnaud studied the lighting and shadows of the room and agreed. A servant offered her tea, and she accepted: two sugars and a splash of cream.

“I had no idea you were such a talented artist. Is that little Eloise as a baby?” Jane smiled, motioning to the canvases on the wall.

“Oh yes. She was about eight months old there,” Arnaud said fondly.

“What about these other people?”

“Some of them are from my court—people I’ve met over the years. Some of them are from dreams.”

“I’m jealous. It must be a hard skill.”

“It’s a lot easier than you might think. Most of it is just shading and blocking. It’s about looking at the overall picture before focusing on the details. You can mold a shadow into the silhouette of a woman with practice. A trick I always use is squinting my eyes as I paint the foundation before I focus on the finer details. I’ve gotten better with practice.”

“I’ve never thought about it that way.”

His assistant continued to add more colors to his palette before he bowed and left. “So how have you been enjoying your stay?” Arnaud asked.

Jane went to speak but hesitated. Has she been having fun? There had been enjoyable moments, but the conversation with Roman had been sobering. The interaction with the King was strange. “It has been… interesting.”

Arnaud stopped his blocking and paused to look at her for a moment. Jane nodded cautiously. “Roman and I had a discussion last night. He finally came clean about why we’re here.”

Realization spread across Arnaud’s face. He looked slightly guilty. “You’re not the one who’s in trouble,” Jane chuckled.

Arnaud threw her half a smile and began painting again, building the structure of the picture. “And how do you feel about the idea?”

“I’ve never been more confused about anything in my entire life.”

“Ms. Ramlal, speak freely if you must.”

Jane raised a brow at him. Did he really want to know? Or maybe Roman was friends with him because of their shared ideas? Arnaud had been nothing less than graceful since she met him. She didn’t want to offend him. His regality could be a bit intimidating despite his kindness.

“I’m not sure it would be wise.”

“Do you honestly suspect my utter allegiance to a place that held me hostage? At the very least, I afford myself criticism. Others are allowed the same,” Arnaud sighed tiredly.

Jane paused. Well, he had a point. “Roman had a very difficult time in his early years. Europe has caused him much pain. It’s caused me much pain. I wonder if us being a titled family would make us guilty for the suffering of others. He says that if it does, he’s okay with it. Roman has a habit of becoming tunnel-visioned when it comes to me. He is willing.”

“Roman has a head made of stone when he sets his mind on something,” Arnaud said. Jane chuckled.

“We won’t be nobles, just low-titled. He makes that distinction as if it makes things better. Perhaps it does. But we answer to the crown at some point. Even being here—buying these expensive luxury goods. In some way we are contributing to someone’s suffering. I have a hard time getting over it. Being on the other side of it can feel very strange.”

“In some ways, you do,” Arnaud agreed.

“I feel that if I accept this position, then I am betraying the woman I used to be. Betraying the women who I lived with and grew to know. Betraying people like me,” Jane sighed.

“Now I must speak freely,” said Arnaud. His tone loosened, falling out of that distant, respectable voice.

“Please,” Jane urged.

“The grim reality, Ms. Ramlal, is that you do not get paid for suffering.”

Jane froze at those words. They rolled off his tongue easily. They were slightly sharp when they hit her, but the kindness in Arnaud’s eyes reassured her.

“Women like you, people like you—there is no reward for the pain. You get this life, and then you pass on. They dangle the idea of upward mobility above your head to keep you running. The minute you return to the earth, someone fills in your spot. It’s how the system sustains itself. It sustains itself on the guarantee that you will struggle and never see that reward. Not just you, but millions—of people just like you. You are born in one specific position and that is your assigned role. Your duty it to stay at the post you were given at birth. Miraculously, impossibly, you have snuck past your assigned post and now you are here. You are not here as a servant, or a slave, or for entertainment. You are here by sheer luck. You have been given resources that were never intended for you. You have been given security that is supposed to be systematically withheld from you. You may very well be one of the only women with your background, your skin, your life to ever have some semblance of security. You weren’t stolen, you weren’t bought. You are here out of free will. I imagine that could be quite frightening in some aspects ?” Arnaud glanced at her while mixing two colors to get a light blue shade.

“It is,” Jane said, her tone quiet and inward now.

“ You are guilty of no crime. You are not a bad person for ending up here. I don’t want to push you into this. Please believe me when I say that… I speak only from the purest intent when I say this. I believe that the people who came before you—all the people who have struggled in your bloodline—all the people who loved you, none of them want you to suffer. None of them want your life to be any harder than it used to be. They never get to see the seeds they planted sprout and turn into trees.”

Jane was unmoving as she stared back at him. She never would have guessed that he would say such a thing, to be so introspective from his pedestal.

“Instead, you have a choice. A choice is a beautiful thing to have, trust me, Jane. And within that choice, you make it alongside a man who is irrevocably, unabashedly in love with you—a rarity, even among the most noble of them all. There is no force, no violence. Only a blank canvas waiting to be filled,” he said.

The room went silent now. Arnaud’s eyes shifted from her face to the canvas. He was likely blocking in her face and hair now. She took a few sips from her tea, yet another small discovery since being here. She had never had it before. It was spicy and warm on her tongue—cinnamon, orange, vanilla, and other flavors she couldn’t describe. Would every day be like this? A realization of just how small her world used to be?

For a moment, she nearly lost it. There was a knot forming in her throat, her palms becoming wet. Her composure was so close to snapping that it caused her to shift in her seat. This stranger gave her the permission she couldn’t even give to herself. She hated the way her voice wobbled. She hates the vulnerability of it all. But his presence is quiet and knowing. If she closed her eyes, she could believe he was a vessel from the other side in that moment—or maybe just a manifestation of his natural wisdom. “At times, I worry that I’ve made my pain my identity,” she says.

The look he gives her nearly blows her away. It’s a slip of his mask, too—an acknowledgment, a subtle nod to the idea, a quiet “me too.”

She finishes her tea, and now Arnaud is really working the canvas. A few minutes of silence pass before she gets the courage to ask about him—really ask about him. She sits up straighter and clears her throat. “ Since we’re speaking freely. How exactly did you end up in Paris?”

Arnaud inhales quietly as if he almost prepares himself to say the words. “If you’ve heard Roman’s story, then you’ve heard mine. Except I was actually royalty in my homeland. I was stolen—plain and simple. I was about seven years old. I was a gift to the ‘Angel of Versailles.’ That’s what they call Queen Angelique De Pointe here. The King and Queen already had seven children at that point. Angelique’s last child—a child about 7 years old, passed away. It was becoming popular in Europe to have one of our kind as companions. Angelique wanted one, and Joseph would stop at nothing to make her happy. That’s where I came into the picture.”

“Very similar stories. I’m glad you two at least had a friend in each other.”

Arnaud nods. “One of the better things to come out of it.”

“Your daughter seems to adore him,” Jane suggests.

“He formed a soft spot for her in particular. All of his grandchildren are boys. He even has tea parties with her at the palace. Remarkable, isn’t it? That someone like him could hold adoration in his heart for a small child that has no relation to him in any way. I certainly wasn’t afforded any of his affections as a child. Then again, why would I want it? I would hate to love my kidnapper. It would make it all the more complicated to identify what is love and what is not,” Arnaud shrugs.

“... Do you want her to have a relationship with him?”

“Yes. She’s far too young to understand. She will know one day. For now, he’s just her grandfather.”

“He must hold some affection for you, though. I mean, you are a Duke. You have a royal title. You have some pull in the monarchy. That’s unheard of. I thought most adoptees just faded away.”

“I’ve often wondered why he would go out of his way to title me as well. The only thing that could explain it…is that he is old. He has but so many years left. The closest atonement he has for his sins is to give people what they want. He knows the destruction he’s left in his path. You see, it’s the ego—the cognitive dissonance of all of it. There is a belief that if you are a winner, if you are a conqueror, if you are stronger, you are favored by God. You MUST be a good person because of the power you hold. I'm sure that men like him believe this to be true. I’m sure that’s how he reasons with the violence. At least that’s my theory.”

“He had trouble swallowing his food, I noticed. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s old age… and guilt,” Jane says. Arnaud nods in agreement.

“Time has passed, and he has grown more tolerable. I'm no fool; I recognize that his growing friendliness toward me is less equal to that of a son and closer to how a man adores his dog. His children have married off and started their own families. For a while, I was the only one of his kids living at the palace. I regrettably and embarrassingly only started to live my life in my thirties. I was always there—reliable, constant. Thankfully, things started to look up when I met Charlotte. I wanted to give her a better life, so I started asking for more. He granted my wishes. I suppose that somewhere deep in his heart, buried in the most human parts of himself, he feels he owes me for all I’ve endured at his hands. Though the idea will never cross his mind in his wake.”

“I’m sorry…” Jane sighed sadly.

“It’s alright. It’s just the way life plays out sometimes. I have found parts of this world that belong to me alone, like my love for Charlotte, my beautiful daughter, my art, the home I’ve made of Palais Royal. This is the post I have made for myself. I will not abandon it.”

Jane smiles at the way his eyes light up as he talks about his family. His love for Charlotte is genuine, and Eloise is adored by everyone. “I’m happy you’ve found your family.”

“And so have you. Which is why I think you will be just fine if Roman becomes seigneur.”

“What exactly is a seigneur?”

“A seigneur, or lordship, is a feudal title appointed by His Majesty the King. He is granted a large piece of land to rule over. This land is governed by the seigneur, who lives on the land and builds a community. He establishes farms, crops, wheat mills, churches, manages taxes and tenants, and grants licenses. He organizes a town, and the people in it answer to him. Don’t worry about the land belonging to anyone else. The countryside of France is rural with not many inhabitants. Roman would most likely govern there.”

“I see. So essentially, Roman would have the power to create the community he wants?”

“Correct. Now, of course, there will be certain guidelines, but I’m sure he’ll find a way around them like he usually does. It would be whatever you two make it.”

“You very well may be saving him from sleeping in another room tonight,” Jane quipped.

A throat clears and it startles her. “Very bold of you to say, especially knowing you’d get the most horrible sleep of your life,” Roman scoffed.

Jane rolled her eyes at the smirk on his face. He strolls into the room and sat next to her on the couch.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I didn’t invite you to sit over here,” Jane sighed.

“Oh, don’t be like that. I just wanted to see how you were doing and ask if you’ll allow me in the room if I agree to sleep on the floor,” he smirks.

Jane shook her head, feeling a smile creep onto her lips. Roman leaned back into the couch, his long, muscular leg crossing over his knee. One of his arms sling over the seat as he stared back at her. He clearly felt no shame at her utter annoyance. There was nothing in his eyes but pure adoration, and his smile showed that he could feel hers, too.

“You know what? I think this picture would be much better with both of you in it,” Arnaud quips.

“Fine. How should I pose? Do we need to start all over again?” Jane asked.

“No. I’ve got your clothing down. I’ll just restart from the neck up. Just keep looking at him.”

And that’s how Jane found herself stuck staring at him for the next four hours. By the end, he had her laughing. He always did. He would say something, and she could feel the heat in the room rush to her skin. With nowhere to hide from the heat of his gaze, she was stuck. She should have known it was a ploy to get on her good side—and it worked. When Armaund left the room she pulled him down for a kiss.

After a quick dinner, the time for the Ballet was approaching. A deep red dress with black trimmings would match the theater curtains, or at least that’s what her stylist said. Jane had never been to a theater, and she was intrigued about how it would feel to finally sit inside one. Mary kept Jane’s natural curls but pinned them up in a pouf style, arranging her hair into a hive shape. A few face-framing curls pulled the look together. A ruby choker matched the color of her dress, but she kept her lips soft and bare; otherwise, it would be “too on the nose,” according to Gaston.

Gaston was a male makeup artist who wore gold on his eyes and rings on every finger. His accent was heavily Mediterranean, and he always wore a tightly curled white wig as a status symbol. Not only was his style eccentric, but so was he. He was rumored to be one of the best in Paris, so Jane trusted his judgment. The two agreed to repeat the same eye makeup on her as the night before. He would place a black kohl-like substance on her waterline. When she asked what it was called, Gaston recalled Arnaud’s friend's wife from North Africa. Apparently, she would smear a black color into her eyes to accentuate them.

“She used something called kajal! I made my own products to mimic it. It made her look so sultry. Like a cat! I absolutely loved it! But you know the French women here all want to look like children—so obsessed with wide eyes and pinched cheeks. Stupide et ennuyeux! I never get to experiment. This is why you are sent from heaven. You have yet to say no to me. Finally, somebody who lets me work!” Gaston gushed.

Jane laughed at the way he dramatically threw the back of his hand over his forehead. So far, there hadn’t been any misses with her assigned team of stylists. They always made her feel beautiful, and they were easy to talk to. Jane twirled in the mirror, admiring the final outcome of her look. “You are ready to own the night, Mon Cher. This will certainly get back to Versailles!” Gaston placed a jacket onto Jane’s shoulders.

“I take it you're in on the operation to get Roman and me titled as well? I’ve been walking amongst traitors.”

“You’re just now catching on? You’re a little late to the party, darling. Your beauty makes up for it. Now prepare to be copied. By the time they catch on, you’ll already be onto the next thing,” said Gaston.

Roman was quite pleased with the look. He stole many kisses in the carriage. Charlotte and Arnaud rode ahead of them and Jane couldn’t be more grateful for it. His beard burns across her décolletage as her fingers somehow loop themselves into his hair. What was once a ponytail was a tousled swell of silky black strands. Every time her hands would tug on his hair he would press into the side of her body harder—a welcomed punishment. She enjoyed the suffocation, the mugginess, the tight quarters. His teeth found her skin, gentle but alluring all the same. His mouth sucked the skin of her breasts leaving darkened flushed hues of pigment for anyone to see. Thank goodness for the low light of the theater. With many more appeasing yet reciprocal kisses, she convinced him that it was in fact important that they not skip the opera. After all, this was Jane’s first time.

“If you mess up my hair, we’re going to have a problem. Mary spent an hour on it,” Jane gently pressed her hand against her updo. It was still intact.

“What about me? My hair was pulled back before we got into this carriage, need I remind you? That’s not very fair,” he scoffed.

“It’s better down anyway,” Jane smirked.

Roman opened the carriage door and helped her down the steps. Arnaud and Charlotte stood near the entrance waiting for the pair. The sounds of horses stomping and neighing filled the stone-paved streets as carriages pulled up to attend.

“Watch your step; there’s horse shit everywhere,” Roman grumbled as he pulled her closer.

The tall, ornate doors, framed by intricate carvings of floral motifs and cherubic figures, loomed among the other buildings on the street. A marbled staircase, its steps worn smooth by the passage of countless patrons, ascended beneath a lavish canopy of crimson and gold fabric, fluttering softly in the evening breeze. Guests, adorned in their finest silks and lace, chatted animatedly, their laughter mingling with the strains of a distant orchestra. There were stares and whispers directed toward Roman and her; she had gotten used to it by now. The faint scent of perfume and the earthy notes of fresh-cut flowers from nearby arrangements wafted through the air, fighting against the smell of the horses. It dissipated the closer they got to the doors.

The towering columns seemed to reach the clouds, crowned by a grand pediment where allegorical figures danced in sculpted relief. The soft glow from within the theater spilled onto the steps. The foyer was noisy with the clicking of heels and the chatter of wealthy men and women. As they crossed the threshold into the auditorium, the stage revealed itself in all its splendor. Draped in deep crimson velvet, the proscenium arch was embellished with intricate golden filigree, framing a scene that was both inviting and magical. The stage itself, expansive and meticulously crafted, was decorated with lavish painted backdrops depicting ethereal landscapes, castles, and mythical realms.

The seating was arranged in a horseshoe formation, with plush, upholstered chairs in rich fabrics of burgundy and gold. Each seat was carefully positioned to afford an unobstructed view of the stage. Box seats lined the walls, each featuring velvet curtains that could be drawn to reveal or conceal the spectators within. These private enclaves, often reserved for the nobility, boasted intricate woodwork, showcasing the status of their occupants. The four of them would have the highest seats with a private catered booth.

Above, the ceiling soared—a magnificent expanse painted in soft pastels, depicting celestial scenes filled with cherubs and swirling clouds, as if the heavens themselves opened up to watch the stage. Ornate plasterwork framed the scenes, and the edges were lined with delicate gold leaf.

The theater buzzed with whispered conversations and laughter, the anticipation palpable as the lights dimmed, casting a soft glow over the audience. The smell of smoke was strong in the air. A waiter came with trays of tobacco, pipes, alcohol, and a small box placed discreetly in the back of the tray. He filled Charlotte and Arnaud's orders before turning to Roman.

“Brandy and a pipe. What about you?” Roman turned to her.

“The vermouth, please,” said Jane.

The waiter poured their drinks into sparkling, pristine crystal glasses. Her vermouth had oranges and limes in it.

“Oh, what is that?” Jane pointed to the carved black box on the serving platter.

“Snuff, madam. Would you like some?” the waiter asked.

“Does it go in the drink?” Jane asked curiously. Roman chuckled with Arnaud.

“You snort it, silly! It goes in the nose and makes you all fuzzy and happy. It’s like you drank ten cups of coffee. I’ll have some, sir,” Charlotte put out her hand and turned it over with her palm facing the ground. The server placed the powder on the back of her hand with a small scooper, and Charlotte sniffed it up.

“You don’t have to try it if you don’t want to,” Roman murmured quietly to her.

“Sensitive nose,” Jane excused. Charlotte looked a little disappointed but nodded.

“Don’t feel bad for Charlotte. She will find any excuse to party. You’ll see at the ball,” Arnaud chuckled.

“Not true,” Charlotte playfully rolled her eyes and scooted into Arnaud's lap. He patted the side of her thigh as he exhaled a puff of smoke.

“A ‘no’ is good for her every once in a while,” Arnaud joked. Charlotte flicked him on the forehead.

Roman took a small sip of his brandy and then a puff of his pipe. She drank a little from his cup. It wasn’t her favorite, but she deliberately placed her mouth on the part of the cup his lips touched. He caught her and his eyes darkened as he shook his head at her. She giggled mischievously when their eyes met.

Jane could see the wandering eyes of the other guests. Many people stole quick glances at the group. She wondered if they were glances of offense; it was often hard to tell with the Parisians. Either way, they had no authority to reprimand or kick them out. For once in her life, Jane felt untouchable—comfortable in a place that did not prioritize her comfort. Maybe it was their incredible hosts or just being alongside the man she loved. Jane sipped her own drink as she opened the brochure for the show while the curtains opened. The show began, and the room darkened. A single light appeared on the stage.

Iphigénie en Tauride is a tragic opera based on the myth of Iphigenia, daughter of Agamemnon. The story unfolds as Iphigenia, saved from sacrifice by the goddess Artemis, finds herself in Tauris, where she serves as a priestess. Her brother Orestes arrives, pursued by the Furies for avenging their father’s murder. The siblings, unaware of each other’s identities, are caught in a web of fate, sacrifice, and familial duty, ultimately leading to a reunion and a quest for redemption.

The experience of watching Iphigénie en Tauride was enthralling and emotional for Jane. The stage props depicted the rugged landscape of Tauris, enhanced by dramatic backdrops and oversized body parts like hands and heads. The costumes of the actors were rich and ornate, with performers clad in flowing robes that reflected their noble heritage and emotional trials.

As the music swelled, she was captivated by the powerful arias and choruses, her emotions stirred by the blend of tragedy and beauty. The orchestra was so loud that the vibrations of the music rumbled in her chest. The gas lamps flickered above, casting a warm glow that highlighted the faces of rapt spectators as they reacted to the unfolding drama. Gasps, tears, and applause rippled through the crowd, creating a shared experience of profound themes of love, sacrifice, and fate that resonated with everyone in some way.

Jane was moved to tears. It was embarrassing at first, but then she realized just how many others were affected. Plenty of men cried alongside the women. Roman pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Jane, and she blotted her face with it.

“I would pay good money to see this for the first time again. I was like you,” Charlotte sighed as she fanned herself.

“How many times have you been?” Jane asked.

“This is my second year seeing it and my tenth time. It’s my favorite,” Charlotte swooned.

“The things we do for love. Grab your coat. ” Arnaud said, taking a final hit from his pipe and pulling Charlotte up from her seat. He placed her coat on her shoulders as she finished her glass of wine.

“I suppose those were tears of enjoyment?” Roman asked as he helped her into her coat.

“Enjoyment. Sadness. Relief. I’ve never seen anything like it. I wish we didn’t have to go,” Jane pouted.

“I’ll bring you back for another show,” Roman chuckled as they walked down the stairs to the foyer.

“Opera isn’t your forte, is it?” Jane suggested.

“I’m familiar with the arts. I’ve indulged in them to the point of apathy. But seeing you experience it was the best part of the night,” Roman replied.

The four of them were swallowed up in the crowd heading for the doors. When the night air hit them, Jane felt energized after such an intense show. She wasn’t ready to end the night.

“You two fancy a nightcap back at home?” Arnaud asked.

“Actually, I think we’re going to take the long way home. Don’t wait up for us,” Roman said.

Charlotte and Arnaud wished the two of them goodnight. Jane was happy to be out with just Roman. He tipped the valet and led Jane down the paved streets.

She was thankful she had taken a coat. She looped her arm around Roman’s as he led the way; he had a far better idea of where they were than she did. As the moon cast a silver glow over the cobblestone streets of Paris, she couldn’t help but notice the liveliness. Even though it was late, many people were still out and about.

Jane’s dark dress whispered against her ankles as she glanced up at the ornate facades of the buildings, their windows darkened, some lit by a single candle. Roman, tall and composed, occasionally pointed out the elegant details of the architecture, his voice low and warm against the backdrop of the night. The air was cool, filled with the faint scent of baking bread.

They passed the Seine, where the water glimmered like scattered diamonds, and the distant sound of laughter from a tavern mingled with the soft rustle of leaves. Groups of couples rode past them on bicycles.

A flickering lantern illuminated their path, and they paused for a moment, taking in the beauty around them. Jane marveled at how the night transformed Paris into a romantic tableau. As they continued their walk, the distant tolling of church bells marked the hour, a gentle reminder of time slipping away. Jane leaned closer to Roman, comforted by his presence. She had never been so enthralled and present in her environment. Jane had never people-watched or taken time to notice the beauty of London. Where was the time? Was there any beauty? Maybe if she had been happier back then, she could have found it. Roman squeezed her hand gently, grounding her in the present—a habit he had formed when he noticed her mind racing. It still perplexed her how he could tell when her thoughts were elsewhere. Jane perked up and looked at him.

“Don’t I owe you an ice cream?” he asked quietly. It took a moment for it to register before a knowing grin spread across her face.

“Yes, you do. You promised,” she chuckled.

“Well, I don’t break my promises. Let’s hunt you down some ice cream,” he said, pulling her forward as his pace switched to a determined one.

It didn’t take them long to find an ice cream stand. Roman ordered only one and handed it to her in a tiny goblet-like cup. They walked to a bridge overlooking the water. She dug into the treat and spooned it onto her tongue. Her eyes lit up. “Wow! That actually might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“I tried to tell you,” Roman laughed.

“Here,” Jane scooped more onto the spoon and fed him some. He insisted that it was hers only. She didn’t put up a fight.

Roman took her to Sainte-Chapelle, a stunning Gothic chapel with stained glass windows. Even so late at night, it was open to bystanders. Sainte-Chapelle has a striking Gothic presence characterized by its tall, pointed arches, intricate stone carvings, and vibrant blue and gold tiles. The exterior was littered with delicate sculptures and gargoyles. It was an incredibly old building, featuring two distinct levels—an upper chapel and a lower chapel. They walked inside to sit. Nobody was there, which made it deafeningly quiet.

The interior was breathtaking, dominated by stunning stained glass windows that rose to impressive heights. These windows, filled with vivid colors and intricate biblical scenes, created a luminous effect as light filtered through them, even during the night. The ribbed vaults of the ceiling soared above, enhancing the sense of grandeur. The atmosphere was serene and reverent. They slid into the seats.

“Surprised you wanted to come here. I thought you didn’t subscribe to religion ?,” Jane quipped.

“ You are my religion darling”, he quips. Her heart flutters but she hides it when she turns away to look at the large statues in the front of the room.

“I may not always agree with the talking points, but it’s beautiful, is it not?”

Jane nodded. “It is. It never ceases to amaze me how people come together to create these kinds of giants. It must take such a long time. It’s almost hard to believe they made it.”

“Not much can stop a determined man’s hands. Not even heights, apparently,” he retorted.

“Is that what you are? Determined?” Jane jokes.

“I am most urgent,” he hummed. Jane chuckled at that, but not a hint of humor gleamed in his eyes. His dark, toned eyes glossed over her face as he leaned further into the wooden pews of the church.

“What is making your haste?” Jane playfully turned her head back to him.

“You…” he said quietly. His eyes drifted to the muraled ceiling. Jane followed, throwing her head back onto his shoulder to enjoy the view.

“Me?” she echoed. A silent pause surrounded them.

“I had a vision when I went under,” he said. For a moment, his voice wavered. It stunned her. A man who was always so sure of himself and the conviction of his words had lost that command. Jane listened carefully, careful not to throw him off his train of thought.

“When it was black…I was not dead to the world. It was colorful. I saw many things. Revisited many instances. But what stunned me the most was that I saw memories I never had. Memories I was supposed to make…with you,” he whispered. A fragility in his voice wounded her. His words made it evident that this thought had been weighing on him.

“What did you see?” she asked quietly.

“My whole life with you. Me, old and withered. You, with white hair. You as my wife…” he said. Jane stilled, slowly lifting her head from his shoulder to sit up and look at him. His eyes found hers, mirroring her own—stunned and surprised.

“Look…I’m okay if you decline the lordship. But that vision, or dream—whatever you want to call it—instilled a fear in me that I have never known. And that fear is that somehow I’m making a mistake by not giving you a life of dignity. I’m making a mistake by not sharing your last name. I’m making a mistake by not being able to introduce you as my wife. And I can wait no longer. I can’t Jane”, he admits.

Her lip trembled as tears flooded her eyes. It nearly frightened her the way this feeling washed over her. Was it relief? Was it anxiousness? It was both. She hadn’t known how badly she wanted him to ask.

Roman slowly rose from his seat onto one knee. His stature was as tall as hers, even while she sat higher. He reached into his coat and pulled out the bright blue box she had seen days ago. He gently opened it to reveal a silver ring with blue sapphires circling around it. Jane shook as she looked down at it. With a hand over her mouth, she tried to hold back the sob that threatened to escape, but it was useless.

She could see tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. His voice cracked with the fear that she would say no—a fear he likely had already accepted as a possibility before he asked. “Jane Ramalal. Will you be my wife? Will you allow me the honor of carrying your last name?”

“Yes. Yes, I will,” she cried. Roman dove for her mouth like it was the only source of air between them. Her hands clawed at his hair, holding him against her. He pulls away to gently hold her hand. As he slid the ring onto her finger, she hurriedly wiped away her tears.

“It’s heavy,” she giggled, her laugh wet with tears. It was surreal. He wanted her last name of all things. And since he had dropped his own as a form of freedom, she had one to spare. So unorthodox and likely to ruffle many feathers. But wasn’t that their love at its core? Anything but ordinary. She was okay with that. She pulled him in for another hug, seeking the grounding feeling of his chest, scared that the high of this moment would make her float into the ceiling murals.

“I love you,” he whispered into her hair.

“I love you more. And you’re going to be a great Lord. You’re going to help a lot of people, Roman. I just know it. You’ll do great”, she sniffled.

“We are,” he murmured.

She can’t quite remember the walk back to the carriage. The ride back to the Palais was a blur. All she could think about was how grateful she was for another chance at life. She watched the trees pass by from the carriage window. The ride was quiet with the occasional “I love you”. And what more was there to really say?

Roman POV

“Are you going to sleep the day away?” Roman brushed the side of her cheek. They had gotten back very late last night, but now it was well after lunch. Jane rubbed her eyes as he opened the curtains. Streaks of black ran down her face from all the crying she did last night. Her hair was all over her head and smooshed in on one side. “You want help?” Roman asked.

Jane nodded quietly and sat with her back turned in the bed. He slid the pins out of her hair, and she sank her hands into the roots to shake it all loose. He brought her a wet cloth to wipe her face.

She made quick work of a bath, and he sat patiently for her at the foot of the bed, reading a book he had found in the room. She emerged naked and dry, slipped on a chemise, and called for assistance with a corset she had put on over it. She kept her hair down as she cleaned her mouth. It was a slow day at court. Many women hid in their rooms with beauty treatments that would paralyze them until late dinner. Men slept off absinthe-filled nights. There was no rush today.

Charlotte was having tea in the orangery. As soon as Roman walked in, Eloise swarmed him. “Is it true that you are getting married to Lady Jane?!!!”, she yelled.

Her mother groaned. “Too loud, mon petit,” Charlotte rubbed the back of her head. She was obviously hurting from the drinking last night.

“Oui,” Jane bent down to Eloise to show her the ring. Eloise squealed in that pitch only a little girl could manage—shrilly and glass-breaking. Charlotte gasped and rushed over to see as well.

“Congratulations! I told you she would say yes,” Arnaud clapped his hand down onto Roman’s shoulder proudly.

“About bloody time,” Caden called out from behind an orange bush, where he was filling his pockets with oranges.

“Oh, it’s huge! Good job, Roman!” Charlotte gushed as she held Jane’s hand up. They went to sit, and Eloise climbed onto Jane’s lap. Roman could see the humor on her face, considering that the two had had very brief introductions.

“Ummm—can I be your flower girl?”, she begged.

“Well, if it’s alright with your parents,” Jane looked up at Arnaud and Charlotte.

“You have no idea what you’ve just done,” Arnaud joked.

“Eloise loves weddings. She’s been a flower girl many times, and she will not take no for an answer. But if it’s alright with you and Roman,” Charlotte laughed.

“YAY!” Eloise squealed.

“And you’ll be the ring bearer, Caden,” Jane teased.

“No way. That’s for little kids,” Caden scoffed.

“It will probably be something small anyway,” said Jane.

“Well, what certainly won’t be small is the yew ball. Your invitations came today,” Charlotte quipped. Arnaud handed them the folded cards. “Whatever you’ve done has worked. You’re very close to becoming lordship now. The ball will really be the time to impress. My dressmakers are coming over today to fit pieces on you and Eloise. Expect to go all out. People wait all year for this ball.”

“I don’t understand why I would matter so much to someone as powerful as the King. Why all this performance? Why not just give Roman the title?”

“Nobility, in its very nature, is about performance above all else. Even with you two being non-nobles, it must be evident that the two of you are special enough to be bestowed a title. Your looks can get you far here in Paris. There have been enough whispers about you to make him send the invitation directly, despite it being open to the public.”

Jane agreed that she was ready and willing to do what needed to be done in order to get Roman titled. Roman was ready to start their lives outside of Paris. He was ready for a house to call their own and quiet nights with just the two of them. A town to do with as they pleased. A real community. But there was one last show. The Ball.

In unorthodox fashion, Roman stayed for the fittings—test runs for her makeup, test runs for the hair. He stayed for the dancing lessons with Beatrice, the older woman being very thorough and rigid about what was acceptable and what wasn’t. They went over dining etiquette and greetings. The whole thing felt like preparing for war, and by the end of the day, Jane was clearly tired.

Jane came to bed late from how much time she spent preparing. Roman welcomed her with open arms. She climbed onto his chest, allowing him to rest his head on her own.

“Roman,” her sweet voice called out into the dark.

“Mm?”

“You’ll tell me if you get bored, right? Tell me you want to go back to the sea if our new life doesn’t fulfill you. You won’t keep it from me?,” said Jane, her voice fragile and worried.

“Why on earth would I ever get bored so long as the woman of my dreams is by my side? I don’t think I even possess that level of selfishness,” Roman hummed. She could feel the shift of her head indicating that she was looking right at him.

“Our new life won’t have the twists and turns of the sea. There won’t be as much spontaneity.”

“Says who? I can think of several different things we can do to keep the spark.”

“Like what?”

“Jane can’t wear clothes in the house on Fridays,” Roman scoffed. He could nearly hear her eyes roll.

“You would love that, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t need some grand adventure in the background to love as much as I did the day before. Don’t you and I, of all people, deserve some domesticity? Some normalcy? And what’s more spontaneous than creating the community you and I longed for when we were younger? Making that happen for somebody else who really needs it?”

Jane silently agreed. Roman knew that there wasn’t much he could say to calm her fears about marriage. Truthfully, that’s what this was all about. She feared that their marriage would become mundane and that he would grow bored of it. But Roman wasn’t the type of man to do that, and the only way he could prove it was by never turning into the man she feared. Easy enough.

Jane Pov

In true fashion for the night of the Yew Ball, everyone was running around in a frenzy. Gaston was sweating bullets. Mary wore a look of concentration she’d never seen before. It had taken hours for her to get ready, to the point that Roman and Arnaud had left. The girls would meet them there.

As Jane stood in front of the mirror, she marveled at the way the light danced off the rich fabric of her gown, illuminating the intricate details. The gown, a breathtaking creation in a solid gold color, shimmered like molten sunlight, each layer a testament to the artistry of Parisian couture.

The bodice was cut daringly low, exposing an enticing décolletage, which was a risky choice. The corseted waist was cinched tightly, making the bottom of the dress truly pop. The midsection of the dress was elegant, embroidered with patterns of swirling vines and blossoms in darker gold thread adorning the bodice. The sleeves were extravagant, flaring largely at the forearm, fashioned from sheer silk that flared out at the shoulders before gathering at her wrists, allowing for a playful glimpse of her skin beneath.

Beneath the opulent exterior, the dress cascaded into a voluminous skirt, lined with layers of rich satin that rustled softly with each movement. The hem was embellished with delicate lace. The fabric itself was a masterpiece, woven with threads of gold that caught the light at every angle, creating a mesmerizing effect that was nothing short of breathtaking.

To complete the ensemble, Jane paired the dress with a stunning diamond and gold choker that sparkled like stars against her skin, while a matching necklace draped elegantly over her collarbone. Her ears sparkled with dangling gold and diamond earrings that caught the light with every turn of her head.

Gaston decided that his impromptu kajal eye makeup was old news. He created his own gold-flecked eye shimmer. It was thick and extremely pigmented. He applied it with a gentle hand onto her eyes and added it generously to the front of her hairline. He kept her lashes dark and her lips and cheeks a soft, subtle pink. At the very last minute, he began to lightly dust her entire face, arms, neck, and chest in a sheer gold shimmer.

With hours of heat styling, it took Mary time to get Jane's hair just right. She gently twisted and wrapped Jane's natural curls around the heated rods, creating loose spirals that would later form the base of her lower transitional pouf. The pouf would rise high above her shoulders, showcasing her graceful neck, with a long framing curl that would fall down her back.

Once the curls had set, Mary carefully unwrapped the rods, revealing bouncy, voluminous spirals. With expert precision, Mary began to sculpt the pouf, gathering the curls at the back and securing them with delicate pins. The height of the hair was a status symbol, and tonight they went big, adding a few inches to Jane’s stature.

As the final touches were made, Jane’s hair was decorated with accessories: a few sparkling hair pins shaped like delicate blossoms, glinting softly in the light, and a sheer ribbon woven throughout the curls, cascading gracefully down one side. A small cluster of gold-painted feathers was tucked artfully into the pouf, adding a touch of whimsy and sophistication.

Most striking of all was the solid gold masquerade mask she held delicately in her hands. Its elaborate filigree design matched the gown perfectly, promising an air of mystery and importance the moment she stepped foot in the palace. With each detail carefully considered, she knew that tonight was not only about her. This was about all the people who came together to make this night possible for her: the designers, the makeup artists, the hairdressers, the shoemakers. All the people who used their creativity to make the elite look their best. These events created revenue for them, and despite her not wanting to go, she could at least bring attention to those who helped her.

Charlotte burst into her room with Eloise in hand, gasping at the sight of her. “You look amazing! You look like the gold sculptures of Versailles!”

“You two look incredible,” Jane laughed as Eloise twirled like a ballerina, showing off her dress. Charlotte wore a blue dress with puffy shoulders and a huge skirt that jutted out on the sides. Pearls and diamonds littered her skin, accentuating her eyes. Eloise looked like a princess in her pink fluffy dress, her hair twisted into a crown.

“Everyone is going to love my dress. I’m the best dressed,” Eloise sighed confidently. Charlotte and Jane burst into laughter. Eloise’s confidence knew no bounds, but Charlotte would never take that away from her—especially knowing that she would only experience about three hours of the party before it became adults-only.

“You’re absolutely right, mon chér,” Charlotte kissed the top of her head.

“We're already behind schedule. Let’s go now before they start dancing,” Charlotte said, grabbing Eloise’s hand, and the trio rushed for the door. Caden was already waiting in the carriage.

A wide-set carriage would have to do, given how big their dresses were. Even so, Caden was squished against the window, talking about how he refused to ride back with the rest of them. Eloise just laughed and teased him for the entire hour.

Roman Pov

“If she does not arrive within the next few minutes, I’m going to go look for her.” Roman anxiously sipped his brandy. The mask was rubbing against his face so uncomfortably that he nearly tore it off. The room was muggy, and the alcohol likely didn’t help. A good portion of the people in this room hated his guts. Some of their friends had met unfortunate ends by his hand. Those early days of running rampant around Europe, committing crimes would leave a lasting stain on how he was perceived. He didn’t care for forgiveness, but he knew that Jane’s reputation was in a fragile spot. Tonight, she must do well.

The parties of real nobility were where the true monsters resided. They did not care to hide their prejudices. Arnaud’s court was more tolerant and open-minded. However, these people were a different breed. They did not often brush shoulders with outsiders. They believed in a “natural order” and made it known. He would do his best to dodge those conversations.

“You forget how heavy those dresses are. It takes them ten minutes just to get downstairs to the carriages, and then even more time to get out. You’re anxious. Relax. She’s done this before,” said Arnaud. He always had the same laid-back disposition. Roman used to have it too, once upon a time. Then he met Jane, and the stakes were higher.

“I’m not anxious,” Roman scoffed.

“You’ve adjusted your tie about twenty times since you’ve been here—standing at the bottom of the stairs. You know these environments like the back of your hand. It will be what it will be,” Arnaud sighed.

“If I hear one thing that I don’t like, I might start flipping tables over, Arnaud. I mean it,” Roman warned, an edge to his voice that sounded more pirate than gentleman.

“You will do no such thing. There is too much at stake. You underestimate her,” Arnaud chuckled.

“I do not.”

Arnaud rolled his eyes. “You do. She’s a smart girl. I’ve seen her work her charm. The Parisians love charm. Now if you don’t relax, I’ll have to give you something stronger.”

Roman cursed under his breath as he adjusted his tie one more time. This event was open to the public, but direct invitees wore masquerade masks. This alone drew a line in the sand of who was important and who wasn’t. It also dictated who was invited to dinner and who wasn’t.

A commotion stirred at the top of the steps, and a wooden staff echoed across the room. Someone was coming.

“The Duchess of Orleans, Charlotte Du Pointe, and her lady daughter, Eloise Du Pointe!” the announcer projected across the room. Charlotte appeared at the top of the steps with her daughter Eloise. Their masks glistened against the soft lights of the room, matching their dresses.

Their dresses were big and bright: Charlotte in cotton candy blue and Eloise in light pink. Eloise had a big smile on her face as she yanked her hand from her mother’s hold. “HIII, everybody!!!” she yelled, waving to the room. The guests chortled, chuckled, and swooned at the little girl as a guard escorted her down the stairs in a hurry. She was still at that age where everyone looked at her with adoration and humor. Charlotte softly giggled instead of reprimanding her daughter, a clear indicator of her humble background. She allowed Eloise to be a child. Eloise, still fearless about the world and the people in it, immediately ran to Arnaud and buried her face in his knees.

“Papa, do you like my dress?!” she giggled. Arnaud picked her up with nothing short of pride in his eyes as he complimented the beauty of his daughter. His wife appeared poised and graceful by his side. He kissed her cheek. For a moment, the former pirate forgot what was at stake as Arnaud became enraptured with his family.

Three more clicks of a wooden staff, and the announcer cleared his throat. The room paused, chatter fading as always, ready to cast judgment, ready to gawk and gossip. The minute a glimpse of gold peeked over the stairs, the room fell from quiet to dead silent. “Mademoiselle Jane of London and Monsieur Caden of Grimsby!”

Jane, glimmering, golden, and shiny like stardust, stepped into everyone’s line of view at the top of the stairs, Caden by her side, a helpful arm for her to hold onto. Everything about her defied the rules of court, yet everything about her drew the crowd in. That gold on her, the way her skin absorbed it and then shot it back around the room like a source of light. Her body shimmered with it. Her mask, completely solid gold to match. The cut of the dress, her jewelry—her first step down the stairs set off an echo of gasps everywhere. The crowd inched forward slightly, each shift of her dress and click of her heel bouncing off the waxed marble floor, alerting everyone to her presence. Jane was a vision, a statue come to life.

As she made her way slowly down the stairs, Roman could hear the shock, the whispers, and murmurs.

“Provocante!” (Provocative)

“L’audace!” (The audacity)

“Audacieuse!” (Bold)

As she inched closer, the details of her beauty stood out against all others. She parted the room with each step. The murmurs grew louder as she stepped onto the main floor. Roman was there to greet her with a kiss to the back of her hand. He pulled her by the waist into his chest, her hands gently placed on his. Her sparkling eyes met his gaze, not an inkling of shyness in them.She had changed from when they first met. This was her final form. Or rather—her true one.

“You are absolutely stunning. I would ask you to marry me again, but I already did,” Roman sighed. To say that he was mesmerized would be an understatement. She laughed and raised herself on the tips of her toes to meet his kiss.

“Well, ask again if you must, but my answer will probably be yes, just so you know,” she smiled. She pulled away to look at his outfit. “You look absolutely amazing. They did such a good job matching us.”

“It was a nightmare letting them dress me. The stylist had to stand on a stool to put on my shirt. I’ll be glad to leave this place,” Roman complained.

“Not too fast. You owe me the night,” she purred.

“Do I? I don’t remember making any promises, but with how you look right now, I’m inclined to comply.”

“If you know what’s good for you,” she smirked.

They went to get a drink at the refreshment table. She kept complimenting his suit.

He wore a tailored deep black coat with a sumptuous finish that caught the light, fitted at the waist and flaring slightly at the hips. Beneath it, a crisp white linen shirt had billowing sleeves and a high ruffled collar. His black waistcoat featured intricate gold embroidery, complementing Jane's attire. The perfectly tailored trousers tapered at the ankles, revealing polished black leather shoes. He completed the look with a soft ivory silk cravat fastened by a delicate gold pin and a black masquerade mask adorned with a single feather, like Jane's.

Roman looked around the room at the glares directed at his fiancée. He noticed something quite particular: many of the women had teased, curly hair, clearly manipulated by heat to the point of frizz. They wore dark eye makeup and dark gowns. This style was not popular in the French court; women typically opted for bright colors. Dark colors were seen as too mature or even suggestive. So to see so many women in dark reds, greens, blacks, and blues was almost jarring.

That’s when he realized that Jane had become a bit of a muse. There would never be an admission as to who they were imitating. The thought nearly made him burst into laughter. And now she was wearing a color that was hard to produce: a pure gold dress—true to the color. Another peculiar choice for French society. Jane had left her mark.

“When is the food coming?” Caden interrupted, startling Jane as she forgot he was hovering around.

“Is that all you think about?” Roman laughed.

“I’m a growing boy. Ooo—hors d’oeuvres!” Caden trailed off, following one of the servers holding a tray of snacks.

After the arrival of guests, the opening ceremony started. The royal family was introduced with a live orchestra performance. After the opening ceremony, balls like these had a specific order: the first dance, dinner, special performances, more dancing, closing festivities, and departure. This would be a long night.

There would be no first dance without the King and Queen participating first. He pulled his much younger wife onto the dance floor. She wore a pristine all-white gown. Everything she wore was white, including her hair and the whites of her eyes. The King tried his best to match her, but the blueness of his veins stood out against the absence of color. Everything was so manufactured between the two of them, even down to the smiles they gave one another—a pretending love. A love that never was.

Everybody in this room should want to be them, to want what they had: as many children, as much money, as much power as they did. Roman looked at Jane as she watched the two of them, her expression indifferent but calm. He was standing next to the sun. He had something more valuable than what any monarchy could provide. A true love, an undefiled, uncultivated love. A love that money couldn’t buy. She caught his gaze. He held his hand out to her, and she took it without hesitation as they walked to join the dancing couple along with Arnaud and Charlotte.

The minuet, a slow and graceful dance characterized by its elegant movements and intricate footwork, was typically danced in 3/4 time. It involved a series of steps that included gliding movements, turns, and the signature minuet pose, where dancers would often bow or curtsy.

The most intimate part of the dance was when the couple circled each other, with one hand pressed against the other in the air. He always found the dance a bit silly, but not this time. Jane’s natural grace added beauty to the dance. The staring eventually got to her, and she decided she was ready to sit down. Soon after the first dance came dinner—a whole other beast.

Dinner was all about the King flexing his power over others. High-ranking nobles sat elevated in the center of the room. Anyone below the Duke and Duchess sat on the outskirts. Low-ranking nobles stood to eat. Special guests also stood to eat. The whole ordeal would have been unforgivable if not for the delicious food: stuffed lamb, roasted duck, Canard aux Cerises, Boeuf à la Mode, Poisson à la Sauce Duxelles, Soupe aux Choux, canapés, tarts, artisan breads dipped in butter, roasted vegetables of all kinds, fish, mussels, clams, oysters, lobster, mince pies, potato pies, quiches, mousse, cream, pastries of every variety, candied fruits with crackly coatings, marzipan. The list went on and on and on. Jane whispered to him how she’d rather eat alone with a spread like this, which made him laugh. Back on the ship, there were no manners besides keeping your food and hands to yourself. He’d seen her bite into the side of a chuck roast like a lion. He wasn’t much for manners himself; he found table manners taunting in a way. Food had to be eaten in a certain order with a certain utensil. Thankfully, with them placed on the outskirts of the room, there was nobody to witness him eat his slice of ham quiche in one singular bite, except for Jane of course. She had to swallow her food before she choked from laughing.

Nobles used toasts to shine the spotlight on their eloquence and wit—always circling back to the King and Queen. There had been five toasts that night, and soon it became rather pathetic. In the distance, Charlotte had to cover her mouth with a fan after the viscount stood to give a speech about France being the most powerful country and how good looking the King was— or something of the sort.

After dinner, there were performances. Ballet dancers entranced the crowd with their grace. A very young violinist by the name of Joseph Bologne stunned the crowd with his musicality, making his instrument create sounds beyond comprehension. Jane was particularly amazed by him. English circus performers showcased impressive skills, such as acrobatics, juggling, and contortion. They performed daring feats, captivating the audience with their physical abilities. Fire-breathing got the crowd rowdy and lively.

Magicians and illusionists interacted with the crowd, pulling doves from scarves and rabbits from hats. The performances were wrapped with plate-spinning dancers from Shanghai, who spun porcelain plates on ridiculously long sticks and walked on stilts, doing difficult stunts and synchronized dancing in colorful outfits with elaborate makeup.

More dancing ensued, this time with livelier dances like the gavotte. Dessert wines like Sauternes flowed as people became looser. Children were sent off to bed while the adults enjoyed the rest of the festivities. Parlor games were played during the intermission, like charades. Roman enjoyed a few rounds of the card game baccarat with Arnaud in a private salon near the ballroom, savoring a few smokes.

Jane was having a good time, and he was in no rush to ruin the fun. She had finally realized why they called Charlotte the life of the party. The two danced and drank repeatedly as the crowd became increasingly intoxicated. A fireworks show ended the night as the crowd slowly dissipated over the next few hours. With the King and Queen retiring to bed, there was no need to impress. People took champagne bottles for themselves. Roman had to search the room just to find Jane and Charlotte near the balcony, sharing a bottle of wine and grapes.

“Have you gotten it out of your system?” Roman stood a few feet away, watching the pair as they draped over each other.

“Just wait until the wedding,” Charlotte snickered.

“SMALL wedding,” Jane laughed. She reached her arms out for Roman, and he picked her up onto her feet. Arnaud was on his way to his wife, who was entering a zone of drunkenness that was inappropriate for court. But with most of the nobles gone, nobody really cared now. Jane was flirty, more handsy than usual. She had a light buzz but still had her wits about her.

“Did you have fun?” he whispered to her as he picked her up bridal style. She took the opportunity to kick off her heels and carry them.

Caden would stay the night along with Arnaud, Charlotte, and Eloise. Charlotte promised him a Versailles breakfast, and the young lad agreed—a bit drunk himself and cycling through sleep on one of the chairs near the dance floor.

“After everybody got drunk, absolutely. I danced circles around those old farts with Charlotte. Now my feet hurt,” Jane sighed.

“We can get you into a hot bath to help those feet, and you can tell me all about your night.”

“My night? What about your night? Did you like any of it?”

Roman set her down inside the carriage and stepped in foot first. “Maybe the food. I also won a gambling match with one of the viscounts from Italy. I won his gold watch. The old bloke was fuming.”

“Gambling? You really are a pirate, aren’t you?” Jane snickered.

The carriage dashed into the night with the horses rested and ready to sprint. Jane was already ripping at a piece of her costume and throwing it on the floor of the cart.

“This thing is so hot,” she grunted.

“It’s the wine. It’s a chilly night.

“ Help me take it off”, she whined. Roman obliged and loosened her corset for her.

“ Nono…I just need the skirt cage off “, she pleads.

“ I…I have to go under your dress and I can barely see anything.”

She rolls her eyes. “ What are you…scared something’s going to jump out and bite you? It’s not like you haven’t visited down there before. I don’t have an extra set of teeth—I promise.”

Roman chuckled at her bluntness. “ I don’t want to mess up such a beautiful dress. You know the stylists are really fickle about how you take off the dress. I could break something”

“ Roman. Take off the fucking cage.”

Taken aback by her tone he dives right into action and drops to his knees. “ Yes ma’am.”

On the floor, he pops under the skirt of her dress and feels along her skin. The smooth silk of her flesh is almost enough for him to forget the task until her hips wiggle when he stalls. She really wants it off. He feels up and over her hips where the buttons securing the contraption are held together. He blindly tugs and pulls away at the fabric until something snaps.

“ You got it”, her voice calls out in a dramatic hopeful tone. He backs away with the cage in his hands, pulling it from under her. The bottom of the dress deflates.

“ I mean I found something hard and smooth so I figured it had to be it.”

“ I knew you’d find it. You’re notoriously good at finding buttons. You may be the only man in Europe who actually can ”, she jokes suggestively. Roman chuckled quietly as he sat on his knees on the carriage floor. Her cage sat next to her and the clicking of horse hooves seemed to fill in the gaps of silence. Jane’s smile melts into something more assertive, more sultry.

With great attention to her expression, he testfully grabs onto one of her ankles and brings it to the side of his face, sniffing it before resting it on his shoulder

“ Did you put perfume here ?” He asks quietly. His voice swells with a daring tone. A hidden question really. Is he reading her correctly?

“ Yes”, she says in a quiet tone. A small smirk spreads on her painted lips.

“ Now, Why on earth would you do that?”, he tests.

“ Well it got your attention didn’t it ?”, she quips. A cheeky edge to her words. Her eyes— a challenge.

He says nothing, only takes the same leg on his shoulder and trails his fingers down the side of it in a slow manner. His eyes remain planted on her as he draws swirls up into her inner thigh. Her breath is slightly labored, the rise and fall of her breasts noticeable from the way the corset fabric sparkled in the low light.

Large and calloused hands massage her inner thigh. He can feel her muscles tense and release under his touch. He brushed the other thigh with the tips of his fingers, starting the process over and again. Working and winding her up as he watched her fingers dig into the cushion of the seat underneath her.

Slowly, he pulls down her undergarments and flings them behind him. The heat radiating from her skin met it’s peak here. She parts her legs further, a beckoning. An invitation to come closer.

His hand meet soft, wet, warm skin. He groans despite knowing it would be there. How could it not? It had been weeks since he last touched her. They had been busy and coming down on the high of finding the treasure. She was sopping. A true testament to how much her body missed him. They both groaned audibly when his thumb pressed that spot where she needed him most. She melts into his seat, head lulling back as she moans against each wet sweep of his thumb.

“ Were you like this…all night ?”

“ Yes”, she whines. Shifting in her seat, he closes the space between them until her butt is nearly touching his torso. Both of her legs rest on his shoulders as he firmly rubs her in circular motions.

“ Tell me…”

“ T-Tell you what?”, she stutters

“ What thought led to what I’m feeling underneath my fingertips right now”, he gruffs.

“ F-Fear”, she sighed breathlessly.

“ Of what?”

“ Fear that when you make me cum..it won’t be enough. It won’t be enough until I have all of you.”

“ You have me”, he urges.

“ Not in every way”, she gasped as his fingers speed up on her clit. It didn’t take much with her. Not with his skill.

“ Speak”, he commands. And he’s sure it feels like being doused in cold water with the way she jerks at the sound. Especially when all she wants to do is sink into the sofa and melt away. But now his breath was labored—heart racing as he anticipated the sound she would make.

“ I Need Your C— ,” and her sentence is cut short with an abrupt squeak as she cums against his fingers. He presses and rubs until her writhing stops . A restlessness still prevalent even after she’s gotten her fix.

“ You finish that sentence”, he leans in to kiss the sides of her neck as his hands trail up and down the sides of her. She’s hazy from the orgasm.

Shyly.. she continues in another way. “ What you’ve given me all this time. It was enough then…but not anymore”, she pants.

Roman needed no other explanation and he dare not make her second guess. Instead he sits back and pulls her to a straddle on top of him. She grabs his face and kisses him. The smokiness of his mouth makes her rut into his crotch feverently, nearly making him release into his pants. He has to stop her prematurely.

Kissing, tugging, pulling, gripping. The surprising sting of a bite to his chest. The tearing of fabric they’ll regret later. The panting across exposed skin. The drag of nails scraping across heated flesh. She made a mess of him to match her own. A whole hour swallowed by the lust of two.

When the carriage screeched to a stop they both paused to assess the damage. Roman’s top was destroyed. He noticed the way she glanced at her hands—likely wondering how she possessed the strength. He threw his coat over her shoulders as the help escorted them back up to their bedroom.

“ Hot water in the tub Joffrey”, he calls to the butler already waiting at the door.

Three servants take turns walking in and out the room to fill the tub awaiting in the other room. Jane watches quietly as she grips the oversized jacket around her. Her lips are swollen from him. Her biting the corners doesn't make it any better. It doesn’t make this any easier. Doesn’t give him any more composure .

Jane Pov

“ Will my bath slow the momentum ?”, she asks quietly. She doesn’t want the maids to hear.

“ Have I not proven my patience by now?”

“ Is it wrong to ask? Have you noticed you’re about to rip out of your pants?” Roman frowns at her in confusion. Her eyes trail down to his sizeable erection that jutted from his black dress trousers. His eyes meet it with surprise as if he forgot. So used to ignoring his body in respect of her boundaries. In respect of her limits.

“ I’ll take my bath cold…in the other room ”, he calls out to the servants in the bathroom.

With a kiss to her forehead, he leaves behind the servants. Maybe some distance would be for the best. The bath would give her time to think. The scented oils relaxed her but she still felt so empty. The desire to be filled, something foreign to her until now.

She took her hair down in the tub and pinned it up again, less uniform, uncaring if some strands got wet. She scrubbed her skin with something scented. She made quick work of it.

She dried off, creamed her skin, and took off her jewelry. She kept thinking about what to wear. What do people usually wear? Well …nothing by the end of it she supposed. But how to entice ? She knew nothing about seduction. So maybe nothing could be something ? She wiped the color from her lips from her mouth. No time to get rid of the eyes. She found a thick hair ribbon, she wrapped it around her neck and tied it into a bow. The dress that the maids brought up in pieces included the stockings that she rolled up her thighs. A once over in the mirror and she felt it was enough. Courtesan in a way.

She draped herself in her robe and waited. She didn’t send for him. He would come back when he was ready. It didn’t take long thankfully. She could hear him send away the butler for the night from behind the door. Her hands sweat as the doorknob turns.

He stands in the hallway. Brooding and wide, like when they first met. His hair wet and his skin coated with a light mist from his bath. No shirt, loose fitting cotton trousers. Every tattoo is even bolder than she remembered. His eyes were hungry but controlled as always. She stands carefully as he turns to close the door and lock it . By the time he turns back around she’s quickly slipped off her robe. He freezes in place, eyes darkening even in the light.

He doesn’t move to grab her. No throwing her down on the bed. Instead, he slowly walks over to the table at the far end of the room. A fire crackles next to it. He sits down at the chair, legs spread wide. He motions his finger for her. A quiet “stand in front of me”. Being gawked at all night did nothing for her. It didn’t move her. But under his gaze…she could barely take it. Hesitantly, she makes her way to him.

For a moment she’s stunned—nearly losing the steam to do this. To be this courageous, sexy, brave woman who takes charge. But when he finally speaks it’s simple. “Take down all your hair. Please”, he says. An authority in his voice, controlled, quiet. She reaches for her hair pins and lets her tresses down, loosening the curls with a shake of her hand. “ Perfect”, he whispers.

Going with her gut, instead of stepping closer she gets on her knees. Intrigued, his gaze tracked her movements as she began to crawl to him slowly. One hand extending out behind the other carefully and methodically. She reaches his knees and places her hands on the both of them. That cold bath did nothing for him clearly. His erection was jutting out of his pants like a sword.

“ Are sure ?”, he asks. She doesn’t answer, only slides her hands up his chest reassuringly. This is the man she loved. The man she was going to marry. This was safe. He was safe. He’d proven that long ago. She united the strings holding his cotton trousers. He lifted up when she pulled them down. His erection sprung out and hit his stomach.

She seized it in her hands and felt the pulse of him around his fingers. Roman had time to learn her. He studied the way she liked to be licked. The way he wanted his mouth slated against her cunt. The speed of his tongue. He knew how to make her fall apart in seconds. She had not learned him. Never tasted him in her mouth. Never felt the beat of his pulse on her tongue. She wanted to do this well.

His girth has always been impressive but not painfully thick. With time she could take the stretch of him without thought. His length, however, was a whole other feat. How on earth would all of it fit? She cut those thoughts off before she chickened out.

At least it was beautiful. Lengthy, curved upwards, a fleshy pink tip, dusky shaded skin, chiseled in thick veins, a heavy sack. Pearls of arousal glisten at the top of him. She swipes away at it with her tongue. He’s completely still, watching her closely, waiting for her to back out. But the alarms weren’t ringing yet. She needed to give him what he gave her. Or at least try her best to do so.

Boldly, she wrapped her lips around the head of him and looked up at him through her lashes. He’s biting his fist. She gives him kitten licks. He takes a deep inhale and grabs the arms of his chair with a vibe grip. She pulls back and softly strokes him with both hands.

“ I’ve never done this because I wanted to until now. So you’re going to have to tell me what you want. What you like and what you don’t”, she says quietly.

“ Well, you’ve got the first step down. You put your mouth around me. Don’t stop on my account”, he grunts. Jane resumes, taking him into her mouth.

“ Use your hands where your mouth can’t reach”, he says. A shaky edge to his tone. She listens, using the spit that rolled down his shaft beneath her hands.

She’s timid, careful not to hurt him. Not to squeeze him too hard. He’s so big that if she goes too far she gags a bit. That didn’t scare her knowing that she controlled the pace. The sound of him grunting was a motivator. Everytime she pressed her mouth further down his shaft, not only would her eyes water but her mouth would too. Her hands were drenched. She pulled away to get something to clean some of the mess up. He gently stops her.

“ You’re doing it perfectly, leave it ”, he says. His composure slipping through a clenched jaw. He didn’t want to cum but she sumized it would be easy to get him back up if he did.

So she goes back for more, inching further and further down his shaft. She made a proper mess of herself. She destroyed her eye makeup. Her nose was running, her mouth was watering like a spigot. He holds her hair for her but he keeps his hands clear from the back of her head.

She sort of liked the mess. The sound of her working him in her mouth, the choking, the sniffling, the sounds of his groans whenever her hand drifts to his sack. The sound he bit back when she massaged them. It was easy to get enthusiastic when she felt his composure slipping from him. When his groans turned into audible sighs when she sucked his head harder.

She pulls away to catch her breath, panting from the exertion of it. In some strange way she felt powerful. Which was funny considering that she was the one on her knees. But maybe it was the reassurance that she could please him successfully. That she was capable of giving back what she had received for so long.

“ Spit on it.”

“ spit on it ?”, She echoes.

“ Like it just pissed you off”, he dares.

Jane nearly laughs but he was clearly serious. And so she does. His hips shift as she works her hand over him before doing it again and licking it up. That earns a full out moan. She bobs up and down the length of him, getting as much in and she could comfortably allow. Bubbles form at the sides of her mouth. She wraps her mouth just around the engorged head and sucks firmly.

Instead of stroking him up and down she began to gently twist with each pump of her fist as her mouth suctioned around the head of him. Then ever so often she would twist her mouth as she came up. Roman, once so stoic and controlled, was hissing in agreement with her new found technique. The praise sent waves of arousal tingling on her breast, her cunt, and deep in her stomach.

“ God dammit…just like that. What a good girl you are. Are you my good girl ?”, he cooes.

“ —-Glaahhjksmm!—”, she talks around his cock as she pushes against the barrier of her reflex. Spit froths and flows as she gathers it around his sack and massages it in time with her strokes. A full on moan wrecks his throat from the vibration on her mouth. His eyes danced around the room and his head falls back.

And just as she’d been taught, she sucked it all up and spat it right back onto the head of his cock. A gut punching sounding groan falls from his lips. This time, instead of sucking, she begins blowing air around the cock in her mouth, gargling and gurgling against his skin as she pushed down down down down. His hips twist and bend. “ Alrightalrightaright wait... Fuuckkk. Stop”, he stutters. She pulls away quickly.

“ Did I knick you?” She panics.

“ No. But this will be over before it starts if you keep going dove. Fucking hell….”, he chuckles. She can see his brow broke out in the sweat earlier. She looks down at her hands. Her chin is drenched. Her makeup is sliding down her cheeks.

“ Maybe I should get cleaned up first”, she giggles. Roman looks at her, eyes full of admiration like they were when she came down the steps. To her shock he grabs her and kisses her, tongue and all. When he pulled away it stunned her.

“ Enjoy the taste ? ”, she chuckles .

“ I should ask you the same”, he teases. He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a wet cotton rag, helping her to clean up her hands and mouth.

He places the rag on the table and abruptly picks her up. She squeals in surprise, wrapping her legs around waist.

Her back hits the bed. He climbs on it, going straight for her legs. Slowly, he peels her stockings off with his teeth. He’s sure to nip her ankles and the inside of her thigh. His beard a welcome sensory against the sensitivity of her skin.

He makes no introduction, only an immediate shot for her clit. He sucks her into his mouth and watches her thrash against him. Immediately sending her into sensory overload.

He laps at her with the tip of his tongue before running it over the entirety of her cunt. Pressing his entire mouth on it and sliding his lips across it like an open kiss. She can already feel her peak approaching as he hooks his arms under her thighs and pulls her closer. Her hands reach for his hair and tug aimlessly.

He makes a show of it, growling into her. Thumbing at her breasts. She’s about to cum already. Almost embarrassingly soon. But he had learned her for months now, an advantage that he took happily.

“ Are you in a rush?”, she whimpered.

“ I’m in no rush, your body on the other hand seems to be”, he mumbled against her skin. She fell apart on his mouth, back bowing against the bed. He left her no room to pull away, no room for reprieve as he sucked her through her orgasm and after. He made no move to pause until she cried out into the room, shouting expletives that were half gibberish.

He went back for more. She nearly protests this until she realizes just what she was up against. This generous foreplay wasn’t just for his pleasure or her own. It was to prepare her. She fought past the overstimulation and held herself to the mattress as he started all over again.

But Roman would take and take and take. What she would allow he would take for his own. For these matters he had no mercy. Enough was never enough. He would drink and never be full. With her second climax she dug her feet into his back, trembling against the intensity of it. That familiar haze washes over her, making her brain all muggy . Bringing a tingle to her lips and feet.

“ I know you have one more”, he rumbled against the side of her thigh.

“ Mmpphhmm”, she groans.

When his tongue dragged against her clit she flinched. His hands snaked around her waist as he swung his face in a nodding motion against her, lazily swiping his tongue up and down the entirety of her. Each pass, more sensitive than the other. His large hands rest at the bottom of her belly, pressing down each time her back tried to depart the bed. A reminder that she wasn’t going anywhere until she gave him exactly what he wanted.

Teasingly, the tip of his tongue would swirl around her clit, purposely missing where she wanted him most. Her hips followed his mouth, swirling and bucking towards him as pulled away further. His licks turned to gentle flicks, a glint of playfulness in his eyes as he watched her grow increasingly impatient. Suddenly, so responsive after claiming to be too sensitive.

“ Come on baby, right there”, she grabbed the backs of his hair with her fist and brought him to where she needed him. Still testing her patience, he kissed her skin gently instead. She threw her head back as she tried to push herself toward him.

“ Please …please”, she moaned.

And with that, he enclosed his mouth around her nerves and sucked hard. Instantly, she gasped as he punished her with fast hard licks, pressed firmly against her skin.

“ AAAH!!”, she cried. She came harshly against his mouth, throbbing against each pass of his tongue. He made her ride out her climax until the bitter end. Twitching—she pushed his forehead. He pulls away, kissing up stomach. He sucks bruises into her skin. The suction of his mouth pulls her nipples to pebbles, electrifying a path down her stomach.

“ Aren’t you going to unwrap me? I’m not fully undressed until you do”, she pants. She was tired from those series of mini climaxes that he inflicted upon her. She can feel the rumble from his chuckle vibrate against her chest. He kisses a path back up her chest. The scrape of his beard tickles her neck and he unties it with his mouth. His fingers reach down between her legs to feel her arousal.

Her heart races as he pulls her closer, adjusting his position between her legs. Involuntarily she stiffens. His fingers feel it along her muscles. He stops immediately to assess. “ Where are you right now ? Where did you go ?”

She blinks a few times before she answers. “ Habit. I’m sorry.”

“ Any moment. Even seconds from now or minutes or an hour from now. You can tell me to stop. We can start again when you want. We can try again on a different night. It’s your choice.” He grabs her face in his, his forehead against her own.

“ I know. I know, I want this now. I'm just anxious.”

“ It doesn't have to be perfect Jane," he says quietly. A thoughtful look spreads across his face. She had an idea in her head of what this would be. She would be responsive, she would look perfect, be perfect. But there was no audience. There was nothing to prove. This was for them and nobody else.

She nods quietly and reaches for him. She needed him close to drown out the panic and the noise. To feel his breath in her face, his warmth. He leans down, elbows on either side of her face. With one hand he reaches down and graces his fingers across her cunt, spreading around her arousal. When she relaxes he pushes in one finger. A small gasp leaves her lip but her composure remains.

He asks. “ Okay?”

“ Okay”, she nods.

He pumps it in slowly back and forth, gently sawing with the pressure. Roman is watchful, nearly nose to nose with her as he tests her. A second finger and she groans from the sensation. Her body could tell how long it’s been for her. She's pulsing around his digits as she involuntarily sucks him in. No pleasure was present quite yet. But that was to be expected. For now her focus was only on trying to stay calm.

“ I’ll let you. I’ll let you…”, she whispers to him. Her voice so fragile—in this moment she felt like she was made of glass. He felt it too. He stares at her for a moment, unsure if she’s sure. She nods silently. His fingers pull away and his right arm returns to the side of her head.

He uses his other hand, reaching in between them to center himself with her opening. Then she feels it, that pressure, the stretch. Her eyes widen as he surges forward gently. Jane’s hands fly to his shoulders as she feels a sound creeping up from behind her lips.

Determined to distract her, he grabs her face with soft hands. “ Hey…relax. Relax. Where are you right now? Are you with me ?”, he asks gently.

“ Yes I’m…yes I’m with yo—”, she loses control of her breathing as the air leaves her . She can feel all of him now. He’s sheathed inside of her and the fit is snug.

“ Am I causing you pain?”

“ No…yes…I mean no..I don’t fucking know”, she sputtered. The sensation was overwhelming. To be so filled, so stuffed. To feel the heat of him inside her. The tight fit despite her being the wettest she’s ever been……” You’re just so…big”, she sighed.

“ Your body will get used to it the more I move. We can try another—.”

“ NO …no, just give me a second”, she urged. So instead his mouth found hers as he waited for her body to relax. She was squeezing him so tight he wondered if he’d actually be able to move at all. Sly fingers slip back between them to swipe at her clit. Another wave of arousal seeps around him. He shudders from it. She sucks his tongue. He nips the side of her jaw.

“ Slowly…”, she rasps against his mouth. She can hear a decompressing sigh from him as his muscles shift and he pulls out and in, slowly. Methodically. The drag of him against her walls, his veins, his heat. Foreign, too foreign to derive pleasure so soon. Yet too comforting to hate.

She looked between them as he lifts up slightly, getting a full view of the way he appears and then disappears—coming out gleaming in her arousal. It was her body doing that. It was her body capable of that. It took a moment to register.

“ You’re still far away”, he pants. His composure bending against the pressure of his arousal. His tone swollen with need -velvety and full.

“ Maybe I’m just broken down there. I’m not exactly the type to finish during these endeavors”, she mutters. He doesn’t like that at all. She can tell by the way he tucks in his lips. He pauses for a moment, as he sits back on the heels of his feet. The head of him is just barely tucked into her body.

“ That wasn’t sex”, he says firmly. “ but this is…and it’s a head game. I mean your brain doesn’t even realize how close you are. I can feel it Jane”, he looked down at where they connect. His thumb rolls over her clit as he feels her contract around him. “How about this”. Roman searches the bed for the ribbon he pulled off her and holds it above her face. “ I’m going to put this over your eyes and we’ll see just how much you “don’t work”. With nothing to distract you, you have no choice but to feel”, he explains. Jane looks at the red ribbon. Who would have thought she’d be wearing it as an eye cover.

“ Okay”, she says. He placed the ribbon over her eyes, wrapping it twice around her head. Her fingers press gently against the silk when he’s finished.

Then he’s inside again. Behind the blackness of her lids, she imagines what it looks like. But with her mind racing and her sight missing, the feeling of him inside her is even more prominent. It quiets the noise of her mind as she listens to the soft grunts that escape him as he presses into her. Every little moan that leaves him raises the stakes of her arousal. She can hear how wet she is now and so can he. Her hands seek the wrists he balanced himself on. They wrap around them, feeling the veins in his skin. She can’t even enclose her fist around it. He was just that big. And strangely enough, that thought grew and grew into something more. A naughty thought that ignited all the other hidden ones.

His thrusts change and with a pass of his hips, they thrust upward and press. He brushes up against something startling. Again and again. Each pass becoming more and more sensitive. Her body learns to become reactive to his touch. The pleasure sneaks up on her and wraps itself around her like a thick smoke, clogging her mind. She envisions it as it invades her, fully claiming her. It arrives and her mouth wrenches open in a long, aching, desperate moan.

Encouraging murmurs fall from his mouth but they’re drowned out as small moans bursts from her mouth. Suddenly, she had no control over her volume, no control over what she said. It was as if this foreign pleasure that he promised her had already possessed her entirely.

“ Oh..OHH—fuck!”, she cried. Now she’s thankful for the ribbon. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to see the way one of her eyes uncontrollably rolled into the back of her head. He surges a bit deeper than before and she can barely control the squeeze of her toes. It’s too complicated to focus on her breathing so every few thrusts she decided it was easier to hold her breath.

“ Breath or I stop ”, he warns.

“ I can’t…pleaseee”, she croakes. Her nails begin to bite the skin on his wrists. That just makes him surge deeper.

“ You can’t cum if you pass out. I need you awake. I need to watch your face when you finally do ”, he pants.

She can feel his mouth on the side of her ankle and his thumb on her clit again. Something rushes through her, it’s so overpowering that it forces the air back into her lungs and then out again, Her body erupts in tingles from head to toe.

This release is deeper, more concentrated, more intense than she’s used to. She squeezes around him so harshly that he hisses as she cums. Her legs shake as he rubs her clit in deep circles, wringing every bit of her pleasure out. She shakes against him like she’d been left out to dry. For a moment she remembers that Roman is greedy. He has no mercy for pleasure and he would very much let it drown her in it if she allowed it.

“ Okayyyy. Okay! Fuckfuckfuck!”, she bursts as she pushes against his chest. He pulls out and gives her some reprieve as she scrambles for the ribbon covering her eyes. He gets to it first, pulling it off for her.

Her eyes are wide when the lights of the room come into view. He’s flustered, sweaty, hair wild all over his head. Suddenly he bursts into a deep chuckle, showing his pearly white teeth as he gazes down at her bewilderment.“ You’d think you saw a ghost”, he snickered.

Her body still tingled, ears still buzzed. She sits up and so does he. “ So I may or may not have overreacted before all of this”, she admits sheepishly. He laughs even harder. No seriously, if she would have known it would be this easy. If she’d known that it would feel like that, she would have done it sooner.

“ Come here. We’re not done… ”, Roman turns to lay on his side. She crawls to him and he pulls her back against his chest. His arm pushes behind her head for cushion while the other hitches her leg up. He slides in with an almost comical ease compared to only minutes ago. Yet, she was just as breathless. Still gasping at the feeling of him inside of her. She turns her head to watch him as he keeps a steady but firm pace. She has to shake off another climax from his expression alone. His eyes are desperate. She swore she could read every dirty thought on his face. She so badly wanted her to enjoy this and it was so evident just by the way his fingers wouldn’t leave her clit. Desperate to make her cum. She can’t help but to steal another kiss because of it.

He angles his hips and her head lulls back into his arm, her eyes rolling up into the ceiling. He was brushing up against that spot again and her volume control went out of the window. The pleads spill out of her endlessly, calling out for something she couldn’t put into words.

“ Right there?”

She nods frantically. “YESyesyesrightthere”, she groans. He leans down to the side of her breast and presses his mouth against her nipple. One of her hands tangles against the duvet and the other scratches the side of his chiseled stomach. The way his hips roll into her should be a crime. His precision— unmatched. When his mouth pops off her flesh she reaches back and feels his hair. He leans closer, pressing his mouth against her ear. A sweet torture, a whisper from his mouth only to her own ears.

“ Is that what you want?”, he grunts.

“ Yes I need it. I need it”, she moans drunkenly. Her brows furrow, mouth biting for the skin of her own lip. The hand under her leg abandons it for her neck. She keeps her leg thrown over his own. She’s wide open to the room. When his hand clasps around her neck, her head falls directly on his arm giving her a full view of his face. A natural surrender. She can’t help the smile that creeps up in between shouts of ecstasy. There’s no pressure in his hand. It just means something. She never felt the desire to be owned or found the appeal. But To be coveted. To trust enough. To admit the defeat of her own walls and hangups. To even allow to let his hand to stay there. To not want him to pull it away. He catches the glint in her eye and a wicked grin spreads across his mouth.

The speed of his thrusts increase and that earns him a nice squeak of surprise on her end. The hand around her neck trails to her jaw. He was especially deep now, so deep she could hardly take a full breath. His eyes darkened as he pressed his fat thumb past her swollen lips and pressed down on her tongue. Her mouth closed around his flesh like it fed her oxygen. A guttural, brutish sound left his mouth at the sight. She could see his jaw clench. A sigh of avidity flows from him. Her eyes rolls back as the climax sweeps her. “ You beautiful creature, my desires incarnate”, he seethes into her mouth. Her tongue slips into his. She tastes the brandy on his tongue and it surges the kiss deeper.

Still, he doesn’t eaves her no time to recuperate as he turns her onto her stomach. His hands find her ass and squeeze. His chest to her back, her head to the mattress, his mouth just above her ear. He feels entirely different inside of her from this angle. He feels wider, endless. She moans his name as inches in.

With the buffer between her ass and his stomach, depth and pace could be more forgiving. However, the angle was even more precise. The tip of his cock dragged against that spot in the most toe curling fashion. He was practically poking it with the way he angled himself into her. He barely pulls out as he rocks into her. Her eyes cross behind her closed lids.

The feeling is so intense, her hands shoot above her head, reaching out for something. His palms come down over the back of hers, holding them flat to the mattress. It feels like he’s molding himself to her like a second skin. He guides her hands underneath her chest, cocooning himself over her body as he gains momentum. The sound of skin slapping echoes across the room, blending with each gasp from her mouth, timed perfectly.

“ You’re sooooo deep”, she grunts against the mattress, muffled and all.

“ You want some out ?”

“ I don’t fucking know—-oh my godddd”, she whines and sputters and twists as he rocks into her. She likes the weight of him against her. She likes the feeling of his heart beat on her back as he ruts into her, grunting his praises. The slickness of their bodies against each other. Grunting his appreciation.

But the sensitivity grows and blooms deep in her stomach. Every sensory combines and jumbles into a looming monstrous feeling.

“ Is it broken?” He taunts.

“ No!”, she shouts.

“ but I thought you said it doesn’t work?”, his thrusts turn to daggers. An attempt at compliance that she gave freely. Rubbing her words in her face.

“ It worksitworksss”, she screeches. His words only riling her up. Only making this deliciously more underable. And those shouts she tried so hard to control finally rolled into screame.

It was sobering to realize just how easily he could reduce her to a screaming, squirming, crying, whining, shell of herself. How easily he could control her body and play it with such precision. He had broken her down into bits, put her together, pulled her apart and washed her away with pleasure. It was scary to know the sheer power of his hands, his mouth, his body —and know that he actively chose to only inflict pleasure with them.

On this very night she was ruined. It could only be him. Now her mind was racing but not the way it was before. Nothing feels this good, nothing should feel this good. And every thought of him that pops up just adds to the pleasure. This is what she wanted for the rest of her days—gentleness, the whisper of sweet nothings, hearty breakfasts, warm beds that smell like him, cigar smoke, late nights, expensive wines, non judgemental ears and mind bending pleasure. In every fucking position. Missionary first and whatever this is second.

“ YES…. YES PLEASE ROMAN. PLEASEEE!!”, she bellowed from her stomach. She spat the words from her mouth like they were poisonous. Like the last words of a drowning person. Deep in her gut she felt the wraith of his passion. A transformative love that grabbed her soul and wrung it dry. Was it pleasure or torture? Could pleasure be torture? Was it natural to feel so much at once —to be loved to the point of insanity ? Because she already came and he was still going. Not even a shudder from his lips or a falter in his hips when she met her climax.

“ ITS SO MUCH!”, she yells .She’s soaked herself and him completely. A new wave of arousal making it’s appearance heard loud and clear. She didn’t think it possible to be aroused so heavily. To be throbbing with pleasure and still want more. To be so unraveled.

She wonders if she has the same effect. His mouth hung open just above the side of her face, brows furrowed, grunting with each thrust. And there was no shame, he didn’t hide his pleasure. His face broke up in the way hers did and her heart sang. She felt the firmness of his muscles on her back and ass, the sweat of him seeping onto her skin, the strength of his arm encompassing her, the powder of his hips. He was perfect…absolutely perfect.

“ Do you feel it my love ?I kept my promise.”

“ FUCKK”, she screeches, voice cracking from the exertion of release after release.

“ I know. I know.”, he whispers. And her emotions meet a peak. Should she be embarrassed to cry? Because she was about to. Howling, sighing, reasoning, praising him. In awe of his beauty, of his strength, of his love.

He was killing something inside of her. Something rotten that had taken root and burrowed itself deep within her being. In the fibers, tissues, blood, and bone of her existence. A spoiled bit that inflicted her mind with fear, desperation, sorrow. It had convinced her she would never be loved. That she would never know pleasure. That she would be left unsated, unhappy and unwanted. That she was nothing. He dug for that bit, seized it, squeezed it, and obliterated it with every swell of pleasure that left her trembling. He washed it away with whispers of ‘I love you’ and ‘you’re beautiful’. As he leaned over her, their eyes connected as her head turns. To hold his gaze only resulted in another wave of gut wrenching ecstasy.

I will take your darkness and turn it sweet. This I vow to you.

She remembers. She remembers those words. And Should could feel the orgasm building from her toes all the way to the nerves under her fucking teeth. “Roman….”, she pleads.

“ Give it to me.”

“It’s so much”, she warned weakly. Slightly afraid from the strength of the release she was harboring. A load too big to carry on her own.

“ I have you.” Roman liked to watch her fall apart. To deploy into the madness of climax. He liked the grit of an orgasm. Not being able to control the eyes or the face. The contortion of the body. Seeing the most primal, stripped down, raw version of someone. She could hardly catch her breath. There was tightness in her chest like she had been running. One of his hands slipped down between herself and the mattress to reach her mound. With just a few swift and firm circles against her clit , she was bursting at the seams.

She came so hard she burst into a hiccup of tears, shaking against the wrath of her orgasm like a leaf in the wind. Her ears rang, white washes over her vision like the sun came out in the middle of the bedroom. He kept his face pressed to hers. He pulled out every bit of her orgasm and rode her wave until the very end. When she finally relaxed into the mattress, nerves shot to hell, he allowed his climax. When he fills her up he shouts. He grinds until he’s twitching—his body yielding him to stop. He trembled as he pulled away.

She turns onto her back and he falls on top of her, careful not to crush her— though she doesn’t mind. They pant out into the room as they catch their breaths. He leans to wipe her face with the back of his hand.

With a voice raspy from the screaming she clears her throat…the first to break the ice. “ Yes again, to the marriage thing by the way.”

If this would be marriage. She could get used to this.

Roman Pov

The next few days were spent giving Jane many more firsts. They went horseback riding and hunting. He sat and watched Arnaud teach her Croquet. Jane was pretty good and became competitive over time. They played card games, went sightseeing and even attended Ballets.

The trip extended itself due to Charlotte wanting to help plan the wedding. In the Palais Royal, a few hundred meters from the property, sat its own chapel. It was an old building, but it was beautiful and surprisingly small compared to the rest of the estate. Jane had expressed numerous times that she wanted to get married soon, surrounded by the friends she’d made along the way. No extravagance, no dramatic entrances, no showboating. Roman obliged without any issue whatsoever. So as he stood at the altar in front of the minister, he wondered if this was enough—if the simplicity of this would be enough for her to remember fondly. Eloise wore a white poofy dress with shiny tap shoes, throwing white flowers down the aisle. She was hopping and skipping, eventually throwing the flowers on guests by accident, of course. Caden was the ring bearer, with much persuasion and bribes on his part.

When he saw her appear at the entrance of the chapel with Earl beside her, all doubt was washed away. Here Jane was in a simple white slip gown, hair down, holding a bouquet of white chrysanthemums that Eloise had picked for her in the garden.

She’d been crying, he could tell. But her smile was radiant. It was probably nerves—the same nerves he’d been feeling the night before and just moments prior. The hairstylist Mary, stylist Guston, Beatrice, Charlotte, and Arnaud were welcomed guests. Rory, Adhar, Cortez, and a dozen other pirates filled the rest of the seats. It was quite a sight seeing the filthy men cleaned up in fancy clothes for the event. It only made sense for Dr. Earl to walk her down the aisle. He cleaned her wounds, nursed her to health, and looked after her in her weakest moments. He’d taken care of everyone on that ship at one moment or another. In some strange way, he was a father to many. His quiet knowledge had been a lifeline at times.

When he took her hand in his as they exchanged vows, he looked deeply into her twinkling eyes. He could see their whole future in them. She’d never looked more beautiful than she did right now. Her thumb swept over the back of his hand when she spoke. He wished he could remember all that was said, but all he could focus on was how beautiful she was and how lucky he was. He stole kisses when he wasn’t supposed to, long before the minister could pronounce them husband and wife.

The reception was held in the orangery, filled with tables, food, cakes, and flowers. He struggled to pull away after the first dance, holding her in his arms, looking into her eyes, whispering things that made her laugh. He lost track of time.

Caden danced with Eloise, twirling her around as she squealed with joy. Rory asked Jane to dance, and she obliged. Adhar raided the dessert bar. Cortez had an intense conversation with Arnaud about his travels east. Charlotte and Earl spoke in German, and it seemed like a comfort for her to finally communicate that way, considering that her mother was German-born. Beatrice, Mary, and Guston enjoyed a drink. Roman was okay with just watching—just taking in all the amazing people he’d come to know. Jane and him had a community that was budding and growing. Now it was only a matter of time before they could give that community it’s own name.

On the high of post-marital bliss, the lordship announcement came late at night at the end of the week. A semi-vacant estate had been cleaned, prepared, and was being filled with help. It was located in the French countryside, overlooking a cliff leading down to the beach.

And after another extended week of waiting, the time finally came. Roman decided it would be better if they arrived first. Everyone else could come later, but this experience would be shared between the two of them first. Jane obliged, and they set out on a three-hour carriage ride with their belongings.

The French countryside alpes maritime offered greenery, peaks and valleys, cobblestone markets, and flower fields. It was comforting and quiet as they inched closer to the property. Jane was anxious, so he held her hand in his as they watched the scenery. A mile from their property, they approached green pastures that expanded for acres. Trees, flower fields, and fresh air with subtle hints of salt characterized the area.

The building itself was Georgian style, with a light brown brick surrounding the entirety of the home. It was characterized by its warm, buttery yellow façade, complemented by crisp white trim around the windows and doors. The exterior had a smooth finish, giving it a refined yet welcoming appearance. The roof featured dark slate tiles, contrasting beautifully with the lighter tones of the walls.

Pebbles rumbled and scratched against the wheels of the carriage as they came to a halt. Fifteen servants stood at the stairs. Tall, multi-paned windows allowed abundant light into the interior, framed by decorative white shutters. The entrance boasted a grand door, framed by a small portico supported by slender columns, creating a stately focal point.

The estate was set amidst lush, landscaped gardens that enhanced its beauty. The grounds were meticulously maintained, with vibrant flower beds filled with seasonal blooms, neatly trimmed hedges, and a variety of trees providing shade and privacy. A winding gravel path led up to the entrance, flanked by ornamental shrubs and colorful blossoms.

Two primary servants, a male and a female, stood to the left of the property. The pair seemed to be the head footman and the head housemaid. They greeted the couple, referring to Roman as Lord Ramlal and Jane as Lady Ramlal. Jane squeezed his hand as they approached the steps.

The interior featured high ceilings adorned with intricate cornices and decorative plasterwork, typical of Regency design. Large windows allow natural light to flood the spaces, framed by heavy drapes in rich fabrics that added warmth and texture. The color palette was warm and inviting, with soft creams, muted greens, and touches of gold. Floral-patterned wallpaper in the drawing room featured delicate designs that added a touch of refinement without overwhelming the senses. The dining room sported a richer hue, a deep navy, complemented by gilded accents.

There were two wings of the home, which housed additional bedrooms and private spaces. A staggering 9 bedrooms, each thoughtfully decorated to provide a unique yet cohesive aesthetic, along with eight well-appointed bathrooms featuring elegant fixtures that combined functionality and style. There was also a library and a study, serving as quiet retreats for reading or work.

The floors throughout the estate were a mix of polished hardwood. In common areas, rich rugs defined seating arrangements and added a layer of comfort, while the staircase featured a beautifully crafted wooden banister that was both sturdy and ornate.

The furniture was a tasteful mix of Regency-era pieces and more contemporary selections. Plush sofas and armchairs, upholstered in luxurious fabrics, invited relaxation, while mahogany tables and sideboards showcased intricate craftsmanship. Decorative accents, such as vases and paintings, added character to the rooms. The house felt lived in.

There were drawing rooms, two dining rooms—one for guests and one for more intimate parties—a small dancing room, servants' quarters, and multiple kitchens for staff and the family. It was almost too much to take in. Jane looked overwhelmed, and Roman was absorbing the information from the head maid.

When they were left to their own devices inside the piano room, the silence was deafening. This was it—the real beginning of their story—a long one he hoped. This house would soon fill with countless memories, its own smell, and the sound of happiness. They would bring her own touch to it.

Their respective wedding guests all piled into carriages to visit the property. The sound of their voices was nothing short of echoes of support and excitement. Caden chose his bedroom like an excited small child. While still wanting to be a pirate so badly, he promised to come and visit often. Being so young, he was still figuring things out. There would always be a home for him if he changed his mind.

Later in the day, they toured the town. It was practically barren, waiting to be filled with the lives of more residents. About twenty people lived there now, and most of them were from humble means. Roman introduced himself as he passed them. Jane, being a bit more shy, stayed behind in the carriage and waved. In his words, he promised to bring life back to the town—more jobs, better food. In the coming weeks, he had his work cut out for him.

But perhaps the best part of the entire estate was that just 800 meters from the back of the house sat a cliff overlooking the ocean. Stone steps lead down to the pebbled shore—a perfect spot for his crew to stop and visit.

The boat that carried them from the dragon's mouth sat in the distance. Roman and Jane walked down the steps followed by Ahdar, Cortez, Rory, and Caden. The rest of the crew waved from from the sides of the ship in the distance.

“It’s blue! They painted it blue!?”, Jane gasped.

A whoosh of salty wind burned their cheeks as they watched Jane. She got closer to the ship. At the front of the boat was a blue-carved figurehead—a mermaid. Jane squinted as her bare feet sloshed through the pebbled water. She looked up at the ship, and then her eyes widened. In her image—her face—was carved into the mermaid.

“’T’was Roman’s idea if you hate it,” Adhar blurted.

Jane was in shock, her mouth hanging open as she stared up at the giant statue of herself. Then her hands found her mouth, and her eyes teared up.

“It’s good luck—a mermaid in your likeness to bring us luck and protect us. She even wears your talisman around her neck. See?” Rory pointed at the mermaid's necklace. There it was—somehow carved in and bolted into the statue was her talisman. A huge smile spread across her face. She gushed about how much she loved it.

On the side of the ship, a blue Bakunawa was carved, chasing a fish. The god itself—a representation of the trials they’d all been through. Through its mercy, they all lived another day. Officially called the Blue Bakunawa, it would sail the seas as the largest pirate vessel ever—a giant among ants. Blessed by Lady Jane Ramlal. The Lady of Ramlal Manor. Lady Jane, of the Blue Bakunawa. The best thing that had ever happened to anyone aboard the Black Jewel. Imprinted on the black hearts of many pirates.

The goodbyes were teary. Jane didn’t want Caden to go. He unexpectedly got teary, too. Roman surprised him at the last minute by executing one of his final authorities as captain to appoint him an official crew member. Caden was a pirate. The young boy screamed with joy. His crewmates cheered.

The sun hid itself behind the horizon, going to sleep once more. It was getting late now. Roman took his pirate hat from his head and gently placed it on Adhar. For a moment, the young man did not register. And then he did.

Constant echoes of ‘Really, Captain?!’and ‘Are you sure, Captain?’ fell from his mouth. Fear and excitement clashed.

“You’ve served me well. I hope you find that girl in your journey east. I wish you all the luck. And when you get her back, bring her back here. We would love to meet her,” Roman chuckled. Adhar, still in shock, looked nothing short of a child as he nodded with exaggeration.

Rory picked Jane up and spun her around, as always. Sentimentally, he touched foreheads with Roman—a silent goodbye to two partners. Rory was his right hand, the man who did the hard jobs. A trusted friend.

Cortez and Adhar’s farewells were also surprisingly teary. Roman teased them for it. But then Jane lost it when Adhar hugged her. Understandably, this was hard. Adhar was yet another friend she’d come to know. He taught her sword fighting. They talked about London on numerous occasions and kept her company.

“I’m going to miss you. Write to me,” she sniffled.

“I will. I’ll be back soon, I promise. This time next year we’ll all come back. I’ll even drag William with me if I have to,” Adhar smile.

Roman grinned. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me and for her. You’ll make a great captain.” Adhar clapped a hand over Roman’s shoulder in appreciation.

Roman went on to thank Cortez for being such a fantastic helmsman. He steered the ship with iron hands and a remarkable knowledge of the sea and the monsters they faced. He was valued beyond measure. He got them back in one piece.

“A’right you mangy mutts. New change of plans. You’ll answer to Adhar now. I expect your presence at my dinner table in one year’s time. I order you lot to stay alive until then. Is that clear, you scallywags?!”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” the crew replied in unison. Their stances were rigid as they gave him a pirate salute—the swing of a palm towards the forehead. A final sign of respect.

Hundreds of hands and hats wagged and waved on the side of the Blue Bakunawa as the ship set sail once more. Roman and Jane waved their goodbyes as they watched their friends become smaller, and smaller, and smaller...and smaller.

“And then there were two,” Jane sniffled. She looked up at her husband with joyful, teary eyes, parting ways with the life of a pirate—a crew that had saved her long enough for her to find herself again.

“Two indeed. We have work to do, darling,” Roman quipped, giving her a swift kiss.

“You know what?”

“Mmm?”

“I think I know what my final wish will be,” she urged.

His eyebrows raised in surprise as he looked down at her determined face. “What is it?”

She sighed. “You said to use the wish on myself, but this is something I want. I want this now more than ever.”

“Okay...” he replied, waiting patiently. Her eyes closed as she leaned back into his chest.

“Uh... Dragon?” she called out.

A few moments later, a thunderous and regal voice responded. “What, child?”

“I’m ready to give you my last wish,” Jane blurted.

“...Go on,” said the dragon.

“I wish for our town—the town that Roman and I will build—to be a sanctuary for all misfits. For every ‘other.’ For every unprotected, unrepresented, undervalued person. A town that will share a real community. A town that does not steal from one another. A town that protects its women and children. A town of men with compassion and honor. A town with resources. Nobody will be needy. No one will want for anything. A town that is protected from hatred, prejudice, and disdain. Let this town grow in number and let us have enough housing to accommodate everyone. Let it attract those with open hearts. Allow this town to be a safe haven for all who may seek it. Grant good health to all those who live in this town. And most of all—let there be no evil force strong enough to penetrate it. Let this town be self-sustainable, resilient, and content,” she said.

When the dragon did not answer, she wondered if she had botched her wish. Roman could since her becoming nervous. She wanted quite a few things—surely it couldn’t count as one wish. Could it?

“It is done... goodbye,” said the ominous voice. It echoed and trickled away in the wind, just as Jane’s wish did. Now all that was left to do was watch it come to fruition.

Jane POV

Six months into building their town, Jane had realized a few things. She loved being a wife. She loved the flowers at the end of the week. She loved the candlelit dinners. She loved the authority; people called her Lady Jane or Seigneuress Ramlal. She loved wearing her ring on her finger. She loved the fact that Roman carried her last name. She loved it all.

She loved carpentry. Roman had built a wheat mill with his bare hands, along with the help of 20 other men. She had no idea that he had a background in carpentry and construction. He taught her the basics, allowing her to help along the way.

She fucking loved sex. She loved it so much it usually crossed her mind at least once a day. It was kind of ridiculous. Roman certainly didn’t mind. Her needs were met almost always on demand. It had become well known that all servants were to stay on their wing after 11 o’clock at night.

And last, she loved the friendships she was building. Not just any friendships—girl friendships! Mary was a frequent visitor, along with Charlotte. Three girls, cut from the same cloth, living a life they could be proud of. She never realized just how much they had in common, sharing stories by the fireplace over a bottle of wine, going on long walks on the estate until Ramlal Manor was the size of a dot, and sitting in the grass watching the horses graze. She had never felt the warmth of female friendship until now. Sure she had friends back in London but everybody had to work. There was no time to really bond. Now, She could talk about anything—no judgment. She told stories in detail, stories that would be far too painful for Roman to hear. They did the same, sharing memories—good and bad. There was no shame, only laughter and "me too's." It was comforting and recharging. She loved friendship.

People were coming to the town in droves. More buildings were being bult: farms, businesses, houses, apartments, theaters, taverns and more. The economy was growing and bursting. People needed jobs, and there were plenty to go around.

With much contemplation, she started writing to Aunt Jillian in Westminster, England. Jillian was one of the few relatives she had left. Most of her family in the islands had passed away. They exchanged letters over the span of four months. She wrote about Roman and how they met. She told the story of their love and the people she had come to know. She mentioned nothing of the dragons, monsters, or mysterious island. For now, it was all just "inheritance." She sent a sizable amount of money and planned to visit her family in the next few weeks to discuss relocating to a separate guest property on the estate. It was a relationship she was afraid to pursue, but Roman encouraged it when she brought it up over dinner. Jillian expressed how proud she was of her niece and was saddened that she hadn’t reached out sooner—a reminder to how one’s own suffering can cut them off from the world.

Money had the power to fuel generosity. Now, Jane could help people in ways that she couldn’t before. She couldn’t deny that it was somewhat self-serving; every donation felt like it healed something inside her. She thought back to all the times she wished someone would have come to her aid, all those nights she spent hungry, wondering if things would ever get better. She could be that glimmer of hope for someone.

She started sending money and letters to her old roommates in London with whom she had shared an apartment. It took weeks for them to respond out of skepticism. When they finally wrote back, they were convinced it was some scam and started asking her questions that only the "real Jane" could answer. She responded with precision. The next letter detailed their surprise and shock; they thought she was dead. A few days later, the eight of them were reunited as she convinced them to possibly move to her budding town. They all agreed to make the transition.

Roman had his own hobbies. He loved hunting with Arnaud and his gentleman friends. He enjoyed communing with his town members and made friends with the hardworking men at the mill. He loved reading in his office though Jane loved to interrupt him so that he could fulfill his “husbandly duties”. Roman tried his hand at growing his own tobacco to pair with his pipe collection, and it was a success; he raved about it all day long. Things were coming together well. They grew just as much as individuals as they would together.

While they sat in their dining room, Jane looked up at the portrait that Arnaud had painted of them. She loved it and often stopped to admire it as she passed through the house. As her fork pushed around her dinner, Roman noticed her distracted demeanor. “What’s on your mind? Does the food displease you?”

“No—no. It’s great. I’m just not as hungry.”

“What’s wrong?”

Jane paused for a moment. Was this really a good time? As understanding as he was, sometimes men got weird about these topics. He hadn’t brought it up, so she was taking a leap. “People around town have been asking me when I’m going to have a baby,” she blurted.

Roman paused mid-chew as he studied her face, a mix of light concern and surprise. She wanted to sink back into her seat. “Has this upset you? Who was it? I will have a talk with the—”

“No, no. I’m not upset at all. Besides, you know how middle-aged women can be sometimes. It’s natural for them to ask”, Jane insists.

“It does not have to be natural if you do not wish it,” he explained.

“I know—I understand. I think our life feels pretty full with just the two of us. I’m fulfilled. I’m happy with you all to myself. However, Eloise has changed my mind on a lot of things. She is very loved. I worry that my past would inhibit me from being a good mother.”

“I think if you care so deeply about being a good mother, then that’s usually a good indicator that you would indeed be a good mother,” Roman chuckled. Jane smiled.

“Well... what do you think? Should we?”

“I’m okay if we do. I’m okay if we don’t. After finding you, I feel no need to push my luck. If the innocence of a child is bestowed upon us, I will be most thankful for the privilege.”

“I think we should enjoy each other a bit longer. Maybe I’m selfish, but we’re due a few more years of just being husband and wife. Maybe it’s not in the cards. We’ve had a few accidents,” she shrugged.

“Is it an accident if you beg for it?” Roman scoffed. Jane laughed; he certainly had a point.

“Well… if it was going to happen, it would have happened by now.”

“You and I both know that a few accidents do not guarantee pregnancy. It takes consistency. If we really tried, it would be a everyday all day affair. The whole thing is very meticulous.”

“Have you not been meticulous?” she smirked.

“Negative. I can show you meticulous,” he warned. She shook her head playfully.

“How do you know all this anyway?” Jane squinted.

“I have plenty of fathers for friends. They give me unwarranted advice too. It’s not just you,” he snorted.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Roman pulled her chair closer to his. “Whatever future is ahead of us is a future fulfilled. I could ask for no more. I am incredibly lucky to have you.”

“And I you. I won’t push my luck. If it happens, it happens. If not, there is no loss. When we’re really ready, we will know,” she hummed.

“No loss whatsoever,” he agreed, placing a kiss on her temple.

A tap at the window alerted them. The two fell quiet, waiting for the sound again. Two more taps, and they stood up from the table. Roman walked over to the window and opened it. Jane followed closely behind as a cold draft wafted into the room. A tiny fluttering hoot called from the darkness, and the patter of tiny feet slapped against the balcony railing.

The hoot of two doves perched on the balcony called for their attention. They walked into the light, eyeing the couple.

Jane swooned. “Aww, what on earth are two doves doing all the way out here? Isn’t this a bit too close to the sea?”

“You know, I asked myself the same thing once, but then something really amazing happened,” Roman grinned.

“Let’s not question it then,” Jane smiled warmly.

The End.

Authors note: Well, there ya have it ! I would like to take this time to thank @sortudademais @2-muchsauce @joannasteez @thesamoanqueen @harmshake @fuffduff and many more for being so kind and making my writing experience such a pleasurable journey on this app. If you’ve sent me a kind message or interacted with this story, I Thankyou from the bottom of my heart. I cared so much about these characters. I hope I’ve done them justice.

Epilogue may be pending if I have something else to say but for the most part every end has been tied up. My next work in progress will feature Jey USO and it will be a surfer story so stay tuned for that. Thank you for reading. Reblogs always help but most importantly, tell me what you thought of the story if you’d like. It really makes writing all the more worth it. Bye for now! ❤️

[damnfandomproblems]

In regards to Fandom Problem 5145. A problem with a lot of bigotry metaphors in fiction lies with the audience themselves and not the authors. Too many people try to self-insert their OWN interpretation of what the story is trying to tell them, lazily narrowing it down to a fantasy take on one case of historical racism (usually black people v white people. how original) when it's rarely that narrow. They don't want their hands held and to be told what exactly the story takes inspiration from. They WANT their projection validated. Projection that is often narrow and rarely open-minded, as many default to only one kind of racism. And using "coding" like their the smart ones. Coding is one of the worst things to happen to fandoms. One example of is Zootopia.

The main point was not a giant soap opera message of how evil racism is. The main point is how many can easily take advantage of bigotry through scapegoating and fear. In a way that uses being a fictional story to it's advantage. Stop calling all the predators "black-coded" and thinking that's progressive.

Then again, what do we expect from the same site that believes only black people can be victims of bigotry? And insists on that each day?

Another example; a lot of people love to praise the X-Men for being a good take on using fictional characters to allude to real-life racism, in the worst possible ways. Losing sight of what they're supposed to hear and what the story is about. "uwu Professor X judges you for your thoughts; Magneto judwges you for your acctions!" No. Magneto judges if you can shoot lasers out of your butt or not.

The X-Men are heroes because they protect mutants AND innocent humans all the same. They don't go around murdering the average human; that's what their rouges gallery is for. Hence why their archenemies are the villains. A similar misconception can be found in many fantasy & sci stories. If you look at a monstrous, inhuman or inherently evil race and immediately default to "black-coded" with no hesitation; that's on you.

"I immediately look at brutish, inhuman monsters and think of black people!" That's also not as progressive as you think. None of this coding or self-insert projection is.

(Askbox Submission)

Posting as a response to a previous problem.

[gacha-incels]

you’re never going to have a real conversation about racism, colorism, misogyny, pedo-pandering etc in regards to gacha if you’re looking at one single game, especially a relatively new one. like anything, this will be a superficial look at these problems with no understanding of root causes. this has been most apparent when users will say “don’t play X gacha, play Y gacha instead.” these are industry-wide problems. you’re not doing anyone any favors pretending otherwise. I’m not saying this because I love or hate any of these games, I don’t really care, I’m not coming into conversations about this with the mindset of a “fan”. You need to objectively look at the function of these games in the society from which they come and the relation they have with their target market. Your frame of mind needs to be out of “fandom” mode to do this. You need to understand the target market these games try to reach and their reputation in their country of origin. The games are technically “free” - the consumer is not paying for the story, music, worldbuilding, etc. they are paying large amounts of money (for actual big spenders, thousands per month) to gamble for singular characters, so in turn these characters’ designs must reflect what the consumer most desires to an extreme extent- and this is of course informed by a lifetime’s worth of societal conditioning (media/advertising/gov/etc) and the prejudices that entails. essentially, because everything is banking on selling these characters, the designs are a direct reflection of the consumerbase who in turn are reflections of the society they’ve been conditioned by. they get shown what they want to see and expect to see what they get shown in what eventually becomes a feedback loop that enforces itself, this isn’t unique to gacha (though it’s extremely visible), you can see this happening in other forms of media as well. for something more benign, an example is in US media the eagle’s cry was replaced by the more dramatic sounding red tailed hawk because that’s what viewers expected it to sound like, and after seeing so much media where the eagle is associated with the hawk sound clip this falsity became reality to them through this “movie magic”. It doesn’t matter what reality is, it matters what the viewer’s perception of reality is. Power produces reality. media like this is used not so benignly. this is why good representation in media is fought for, there’s the ability to have a huge effect on a populace, also why “all art is political” it’s who greenlites it, who funds it, who hosts it, where is it shown, who sees it, etc this is all politics. all of this is related.

I would say the average gacha design/character doesn’t want to challenge anything but use the signifiers of contemporary stereotypes already rigidly in place to flatter the consumer’s already held beliefs- and typically it boils down to this is the “demure” (most often East Asian) girl who will fuck you, this is the “exotic” (most often generic fantasy SWANA-like stereotyped) girl who will fuck you, this is the “motherly” girl who will fuck you, this is the “little girl” who will fuck you, this is the “angry” girl that says she hates you but you still own, this is your “cool bro” who is designed to not make men feel uncomfortable. by doing this they are also entering the feedback loop of, for example, racial stereotyping, so this absolutely isn’t to say these designs are harmless.. one year thigh straps are in, one year bare feet are in, one year tech accessories are in, every year racism is in, every year misogyny is in. If you’re coming into this thinking a game like Genshin is leading the pack in any of these areas besides being an open world game and its UI you’re kidding yourself. There are thousands of these games, they’ve been coming out since like 2012 with Puzzle & Dragons, LL:SIF was huge on this website when Nozomi was the designated “thick” anime girl (plus ça change), FGO started in back 2015 and continues to reach new heights of pedophilic design and racism each day. The reason why you will sometimes see riskier design choices in music, NPCs, side stories, background design is that no one is paying to gamble for those things.

[animentality]

x men stories are better as a disability metaphor than a race or lgbtqia metaphor.

in a fantasy/sci fi setting, it's always clinically stupid to say racism/homophobia is bad, look how these people who can literally explode other people's minds and warp reality are discriminated against for being different.

in a world where a sex predator could have the powers of professor x, it is actually logical to say yeah... that guy is dangerous, and we should maybe be worried about him. we need to watch him. maybe not have him near people who can't read minds.

and then your metaphor is stupid.

because people of color/lgbtqia people aren't dangerous, and we don't need to be kept away from (straight) (white) people.

it's almost always white people doing these metaphors too because they like the nobility of the suffering minority, but have no deeper understanding of societal inequality. it's just an aesthetic.

racism is just drama for them.

but the x men as a disability metaphor is better, because while people with disabilities aren't dangerous either, the better analogy to real life is the fact that mutants just need special accomodations to coexist with non mutants.

it's still not perfect, but it makes more sense, especially when you consider some mutants can freeze the entire planet and some just look ugly.

mutants have the potential to be diverse in their special needs too, which makes it work even better, since you can argue that anti black racism applies quite unilaterally against people with darker skin colors, and there is unity in simply having darker skin and being able to relate to someone else who knows what it's like to be the only POC in the all white boardroom.

but disabilities are diverse, and different groups needs different things, and some individuals have very rare conditions or unique circumstances. some individuals have obvious disabilities and others have invisible ones.

I don't like to credit mha for much, but the one thing it does get right is actually considering the negative effects of having super powers, and how people with weaker powers are more vulnerable to social discrimination than those with stronger powers.

it's really kinda simple. people have different needs and abilities and society could do better at providing them reasonable accomodations, because they have the right to exist in public and participate in society too.

cyclops and rogue are already not bad metaphors for disability, since cyclops used to not be able to control his eye beams, so he has to wear a visor or glasses, and rogue can't touch people.

but alas.

I know professor x and magneto have the whole Malcolm x and MLK Jr. sexual tension, so we can't ever fully divorce x men from the race inequality metaphor.

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 23 - To Call Up Their Shadowy Forms

Summary: In a chaotic, adrenaline-fueled poker game, Arthur and Kate find themselves ensnared in the deadly consequences of their choices during a fine night of debauchery.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

AN: 15k words (holy hell). Please don't look too deeply into the schematics of how this night plays out. I don't know squat about poker, and I loosely followed the game mission for this chapter. So I hope that makes it all the more interesting! It's going to be a very wild ride ;)

TW: Descriptions of blood, gore, and violence.

Credit to @ arthurlicious on X for the Arthur photo!

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig @marygillisapologist @eternalsams @lunawolfclaw  @yallgotkik

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Caretaking, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

The Lanahachee Riverboat loomed grandly in the distance, its regal silhouette framed against a setting sun that bathed the world in molten gold. The river’s surface mirrored the heavens, a shimmering expanse of pinks and fiery oranges rippling with each subtle current. Lanterns already glowed along the vessel’s decks, their warm light twinkling like stars as the evening settled in. 

The Grand Korrigan was no mere boat—it was a floating palace, a monument to wealth and decadence, its every detail demanding admiration.

The harbor itself seemed unnervingly still. Despite being so close to the lively heart of Saint Denis, the usual bustle of docks and murmurs of workers were absent. The silence wrapped around Kate like a heavy cloak, amplifying the drumbeat of her thoughts. Too quiet, she mused, though she wasn’t sure if it was the harbor or her own nerves drowning out the noise. She shifted in her seat as the stagecoach jostled over uneven terrain, her gloved hands fidgeting in her lap.

Strauss and Trelawney’s voices droned on, rehearsing the evening’s intricate plan yet again. Kate had long since stopped listening to the specifics, their words blurring into the rhythmic clatter of wheels and hooves. Across the cramped space, she caught sight of Arthur. He sat stiffly, grumbling under his breath as he fumbled with his ascot tie. The sight made her smile—a rare flicker of humor breaking through the mounting tension. His polished black suit and golden cravat gave him a dashing air. But the way he tugged at his collar made it clear he’d rather be wearing his old, familiar coat. He looked utterly out of place, yet undeniably handsome.

Her own gown was an exquisite contradiction—beautiful yet burdensome. The deep black fabric shimmered faintly as if caressed by the fading sunlight, it reminded her of Lorena’s midnight coat in the dying light. Its ruffled skirts cascading around her legs like a waterfall, trimmed in gold lace. Each thread of embroidery on the corset seemed to hold a story of elegance. Cinched tight, it stole the air from her lungs, leaving her breath shallow and measured. The puffed sleeves barely clung to her shoulders, a precarious balance that made her feel both exposed and weighed down all at once. Kate glanced down at the opulent layers pooling around her feet. It was a dress meant to captivate, to draw every eye in the room. But standing there on the edge of the plan, she didn’t feel like the dazzling centerpiece she was meant to be. She felt like an imposter, masquerading in another woman’s splendor. A pigeon parading as a peacock. 

“Remember Arthur, you’re new money from the oil fields. Loud, drunk, and maybe a little too proud. Don’t overdo it, but don’t be subtle either,” Trelawny instructed, his voice clipped and precise. “Watch Strauss. He’ll signal you when it’s time to act.”  

Arthur grunted, adjusting his cravat with an exaggerated scowl. “I’ll try not to embarrass myself too much, but don’t expect any miracles.”

“And absolutely no shuffling and mumbling. Puff your chest out, get outside yourself.” Trelawny continued, berating him like he was a scoundrel. 

With a huff Arthur waved him off, “yeah, alright alright. This ain’t Hamlet.” 

Kate barely registered their words. The stagecoach rolled to a halt, and her eyes were drawn to the Grand Korrigan. Its lanterns glimmered like a constellation against the encroaching night, while finely dressed gentlemen filed aboard, their laughter and chatter carrying faintly over the dock. She forced her gaze away, focusing instead on the tight coil of nerves in her stomach. Tonight, she wouldn’t just be part of the plan—she was the plan. The centerpiece. The singer. The distraction.  

“Kate, my dear, are you listening?”  

Trelawny’s voice snapped her back to the present. She blinked and nodded, offering a tight smile. “Sorry. The suspense is killing me.” She answered half-heartedly. Her voice was calm, but inside she was anything but.  

“Oh, don’t be so jaded. It’s all just a bit of innocent fun,” Trelawny said with a grin, offering his gloved hand as she stepped down.

Innocent fun. Kate nearly laughed at the thought. When had anything Dutch orchestrated ever been innocent? She couldn’t even remember how she’d been roped into this role—Dutch’s charm had a way of clouding specifics. It was easy to see why Arthur and John clung so tightly to their faith in him. That kind of persuasion was hard to shake.

The salt-tinged air hit her as soon as she stepped out. It was sharp and heavy, carrying the mingling scent of the river. She tried to take a deep breath to steady herself, but the corset refused to let her. As she walked toward the glowing riverboat, Arthur passed by her side. He gave her a small, confident nod. No words were exchanged, but the meaning was clear—a silent promise that they’d get through this night together.  

Kate ran over her role in her mind, repeating the name she was meant to embody: Marietta Sacchi, a renowned Italian singer. Her task was simple, yet the weight of it felt anything but. She would sing in her mother’s native language, captivating the room while Arthur and the others worked the tables. Speak as little as possible, Hosea had instructed. Let the allure of mystery do most of the talking. 

And pray that none of these drunken card sharks could tell the difference.  

Tonight, Arthur’s target was Desmond Blythe, a man who exuded wealth and arrogance in equal measure. Known for his indulgence in all things luxurious, Blythe wasn’t shy about gambling big, nor did he seem to care much when he lost—so long as it was on his terms. The hosiery magnate had a reputation for keeping extra collateral close at hand, tucked away in a safe nearby whenever he ventured out to gamble. It was this cache, more than the game itself, that had caught Dutch’s interest. Arthur’s job was simple in theory: cheat Blythe at poker, rake in the winnings, and push the stakes sky-high to draw out the collateral. The haul could mean a fortune, enough to pull the gang out of their latest mire of trouble.

Ahead, Javier waited on the dock, his posture rigid in a police uniform that suited him almost too well. The sight was both reassuring and unnerving. The air buzzed with faint music and the hum of conversation as Arthur and the group approached the dock, the glowing riverboat looming like a floating palace.

Javier, clad in his borrowed uniform, smirked as they neared. “Well, would you look at that?” he called out, his tone teasing. “From toad to prince! You’re looking like a lucky man tonight Arthur.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, his hand tugging at the too-tight cravat around his neck. “Sure, feelin’ luckier than a turkey that survived Thanksgiving,” he drawled sarcastically, his lips curving into a faint grin.

Javier turned his attention to Kate, his expression softening. He reached for her gloved hand with an exaggerated flourish, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Ay, hermosa,” he said warmly. “Beautiful as always.”

Kate smiled, her nerves momentarily soothed by the familiar company. She dipped into a small curtsy, her layered skirts rustling softly. “Grazie, amico,” she replied, her Italian accent smooth and practiced.

Arthur's eyes lingered on her, drawn against his better judgment. Kate was breathtaking, radiant in her gown of black and gold, her movements elegant enough to belong among the wealthy elite. Yet, he knew better. Knew her heart, her strength, and the lengths she’d go to for the people she cared about. It made him both proud and uneasy, stirring something fierce and protective deep inside. He worried constantly—for her safety, her health, her happiness. The job tonight only added to the weight pressing on his shoulders. But Kate had insisted. She promised him this was the last job. Now all they needed to do was make it through the night.  

He prayed the payoff would be enough to break free from the endless cycle of running and scheming. Enough to finally put this life behind them.  

Leaning close, his voice low and gravelly, he murmured near her ear, “Still not too late to turn back, darlin’.”  

Her laugh was soft, warming him despite the tension in the air. “Oh, don’t you start that now,” she teased, brushing past him with a wink that carried far more confidence than she felt.  Waving for the rest of the men to follow her. 

Kate moved ahead, her steps deliberate as she led the group toward the boat. She was a vision of poise, her head held high, but Arthur could see the faint hesitation in her movements—the cracks beneath the polished surface. She was good at this, though. Hosea had made sure of it.  

He’d taken time with her, teaching her the nuances of her role. Going off of what she remembered from the garden party. He reminded her how to hold herself with a dignity that came naturally to the wealthy. Confidence, Hosea had said. That’s all it takes. Just fake it till you make it. Kate had clung to his lessons, grateful for his patience and guidance. Now it was her time to prove it.  

The dock creaked beneath their feet as they approached the towering riverboat, the Grand Korrigan glowing like a gilded jewel against the darkening sky. The faint scent of brackish water and wood polish hung in the air. Lanterns flickered overhead, casting warm light on polished brass and lacquered railings. Kate’s heart pounded, adrenaline dulling the lingering fatigue that had plagued her for days. She could do this. She had to do this.  

At the ticket booth, she paused, addressing the attendant with a measured tone that mirrored the airs of her fabricated persona. Introducing herself and her companions. The man barely glanced up, his practiced professionalism working in their favor. With a perfunctory nod, he waved them through, welcoming them aboard with a flourish. And just like that, they were in.  

The weight on her chest eased slightly as her heels clicked against the polished deck. She tried to let herself breathe, though her dress left little room for air. The grandeur of the boat swallowed some of her nerves for a moment. The soft hum of music drifted from the main hall, mingling with the distant clink of glasses and polite laughter. The night had begun.  

Kate led the way to the left, her golden train sweeping behind her as she found the entrance to the stage room. Pausing at the doorway, she glanced back over her shoulder. Her gaze found Arthur, and for a moment, they shared a silent exchange. Her eyes were steady, filled with determination. He gave her the smallest nod, and she knew he would be close by.  

Strauss and Trelawny veered right, disappearing into the main room to mingle with their marks. Arthur moved to follow, but his hand shot out, grabbing Javier by the arm.  

“Need you to do somethin’ for me,” Arthur said quietly, his tone urgent.  

Javier tilted his head, his expression serious. “Whatever you need, hermano.”  

Arthur’s grip tightened. “Don’t let her outta your sight. Not for a second.”  

Crossing a finger over his chest, Javier nodded. His eyes flicked toward Kate as she stepped into the stage room. “You have my word.”  

Arthur released him, watching as Javier followed after her. Only when she was out of sight did Arthur turn away, his jaw tight. Tonight had to go right. There was no room in their tumultuous lives for anything else.  

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate paced the small room, her heels tapping against the gleaming mahogany floor with a rhythm that betrayed her nerves. The faint scent of cigar smoke and brandy drifted through the air, a reminder of the indulgent crowd just beyond the walls. From where she stood, she could hear the low murmur of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter—a sharp contrast to the raging of her own thoughts.

The ship’s interior was nothing short of opulent. Brass sconces lined the walls, their light warm and flickering, as though from real flames. Heavy velvet drapes in a deep, blood-red hue framed the windows, muting the faint glow of the setting sun. Everywhere she looked, there was an excess of detail: gilded mirrors that reflected the light in soft, golden ripples, carvings that twisted and curled like ivy along every edge. The atmosphere was almost suffocating in its grandeur.

Her gaze wandered through the open archway ahead. The stage awaited her—a small, raised platform that seemed dwarfed beside the grand staircase curling elegantly to the second floor. The staircase was a masterpiece in itself, with railings that gleamed with gold and ivory steps polished to a shine. Above it, a chandelier cascaded like frozen rain, scattering shards of light across the room. Swaying gently as it rocked with the rhythm of the moving boat. It was stunning. Intimidating.

Only the crimson curtains separated her from the spotlight. Kate's gloved fingers traced the cool brass of the banister, the distorted reflection staring back at her. It almost startled her how well she fit the role tonight. She looked every inch the part—poised, regal, like a queen ready to command her court.

For a fleeting moment, she let the thought play out: a famous singer, adored by audiences, traveling the world in luxury. The image shimmered in her mind, tempting and hollow. It was a life of applause and adoration, but it was also a life without Arthur.

That version of herself—a woman untethered by love or loyalty—felt foreign to her now. It wasn’t a life she wanted. She had new dreams, new hopes. And all of them included her rugged cowboy. Kate exhaled softly, letting the thought fade, as the sound of a voice behind her pulled her back to the moment.

“Marietta Sacchi, wow.” The words carried a youthful awe.

She turned and found herself face-to-face with a young man who couldn’t have been more than seventeen. His face was smooth, untouched by the weight of years, and his bright green eyes practically shone with admiration behind a pair of round glasses. Thick waves of dark brown hair framed his features, neatly combed to one side, though a few rebellious strands fell across his brow. He stood tall in a crisp black-and-white suit, looking like he was trying to embody the very idea of sophistication.

“An honor to meet you,” he said, thrusting out a hand, his excitement barely contained.

Kate blinked, momentarily taken aback by his earnestness. After a moment’s hesitation, she smiled, slipping her gloved hand into his for a polite shake. She reminded herself of Hosea’s advice: keep conversation to a minimum, maintain a sense of mystery.

“Vincent Dupont,” he introduced himself, his grip firm and eager. “But please, call me Vin. I’ll be your pianist tonight.” He gestured toward the stage, a proud grin lighting up his face.

Kate’s smile didn’t falter, but her mind churned. A pianist? This wasn’t part of the plan. She quickly assessed the situation, deciding she’d have to improvise. 

“A pleasure,” she replied, her tone warm but measured.

Vin beamed. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Sacchi. I’ve been playing since before I could walk. Whatever song you choose, I’ll match you note for note.”

“That’s wonderful,” Kate said, her voice even, maintaining the poised demeanor she’d been coached to adopt.

Vin took a step back, his gaze wandering over to the windows, eyes reflecting the last golden tendrils of burning light. “This night is going to change everything,” he said dreamily, almost to himself. Returning to her, he explained. “When the administrators at Berklee find out I played on the Grand Korrigan, they’ll have to let me attend.” His enthusiasm bubbled over, and he laughed.

Kate felt a pang in her chest. He was just a boy; innocent, wide-eyed and full of dreams, entirely unaware that this moment was part of a carefully staged illusion. She thought of the young Beau Gray and his fierce passion for life, love, and change. The memory was bittersweet. But there was no room for honesty here, she couldn’t risk exposing the truth. Instead, she leaned into her role.

“Berklee, you say? Boston is a beautiful city,” she replied, with an accent that fit her Italian heritage.

Vin’s face lit up at her response. “Oh, it’s the best city in the world! Have you been? The parks, the music halls, the smell of roasted peanuts in Fenway—there’s no place quite like it.” His words tumbled out with the unchecked enthusiasm of someone deeply in love with a dream.

Kate smiled softly, letting his excitement wash over her like a balm. “I lived there once,” she said smoothly, practically the only small truth she would allow herself to tell this evening. “Many years ago. It was… charming.”

“Charming,” Vin said with a grin, his enthusiasm lighting up the dim room. “That’s the perfect word for it. It’s where I’m headed after this, you know. Been saving every penny, practicing every day. My father says I’m not good enough, that it’s too big a leap,” he paused, seemingly lost in thought. “But what does he know,” he muttered.

“Boston is huge, and Berklee? Well, that’s the top of the mountain, isn’t it?” He paused, his confidence wavering for just a moment. “I—uh, I’m sorry. I must sound like I’m rambling.”

A faint smile tugged at Kate’s lips as a wave of nostalgia swept over her. She pictured cobblestone streets, towering buildings, and the distant hum of life that once filled her days. She remembered her mother, and their Sunday trips to church as a family. She wondered if her parents could see her now, would they be proud? 

Boston was no longer her home, it hadn’t been for a very long time, but the memories of a bustling city—so much like Saint Denis—felt strangely close. The details blurred in her mind, but the feelings were vivid, like a familiar melody playing faintly in the distance.

She could tell Vin was a bright and passionate young man. Though they were both chasing dreams tonight, he deserved the spotlight more than she did. His whole life awaited him. 

“Not at all,” Kate said, her smile growing softer. “It’s good to have dreams. And it sounds like you have the grit to match your talent. They’d be fools not to take you.”

Vin’s cheeks flushed a light pink, and he rubbed the back of his neck, his grin turning bashful. “You’re too kind, Miss Sacchi.”

The noise from the main room outside quieted, a telltale sign that her performance was drawing near. The tight fabric of her gown clung too closely, making her breaths feel shallow. She twisted her gloved hands together, her nerves bubbling to the surface despite her best efforts.

Vin noticed, his sharp green eyes softening as he reached out to place a steadying hand on her shoulder. She flinched slightly, caught off guard by the gesture, but his voice was gentle, almost calming. “Forgive me for saying so—but you look nervous.”

Kate straightened, forcing a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Nervous? No, no. Just… eager to get started,” she replied, though her fingers betrayed her, fidgeting with the edge of her glove.

Vin tilted his head, his expression knowing but kind. “You don’t have to put on a brave face for me,” he said quietly. “I get nervous too, every time I sit at the keys. But here’s the thing—we’re performers. We get to decide what they see, and who we want to be. To them, you’re a star. Just be yourself, Miss Sacchi and shine as bright as you can”

Kate hesitated, the weight of his words pressing gently against the truths she couldn’t share. If only it were that simple. She wasn’t a star—she was a liar, playing a role and deceiving him from the moment they met. Yet, there was something so genuine about Vin’s belief in her, his unshakable confidence in her ability to shine. It stirred something in her, something bittersweet.

She was taken aback by his innocent sincerity, his earnestness. It was rare to see such pure kindness, especially in a setting like this. 

“Thank you, Vin,” she said softly, her voice losing some of its practiced air. “That means a lot.”

He smiled, clearly pleased that he’d reassured her. “We’ll make a great team out there, you and me. I promise.”

Before Kate could respond, a voice called from beyond the curtain. “Miss Sacchi, Mr. Dupont, we’re ready for you.”

Vin offered her an encouraging nod and extended his arm. “Shall we, ma’am?”

For a fleeting moment, Kate forgot the charade, the stakes, and the lies. She saw only the hope and sincerity in Vin’s eyes, and for the first time that night, she felt a small measure of calm. Placing her hand lightly on his arm, she allowed herself a genuine smile. “Let’s.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━ 

Arthur trailed Trelawny down the narrow corridors, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet beneath. The walls were lined with ornate sconces, their golden light casting flickering shadows that seemed to dance mockingly in his peripheral vision. He tugged at his cuff sleeves, an anxious habit he couldn’t quite shake. Something about tonight gnawed at his conscience, a restless unease that made his skin crawl. Was it Kate’s frail health and the risk she was taking? Or the fact that he felt naked and exposed in this den of lions, his gun left behind at the door? Every step felt heavier as his mind raced with the myriad ways this could spiral into chaos—and how he could ensure Kate’s safety when it did.

“You seem unsure, Arthur,” Trelawny’s voice cut through his thoughts, light and tinged with that ever-present air of smug confidence.

Arthur barely registered the servant they passed, who offered them a polite greeting. His focus remained on the knot tightening in his chest. 

“Forgive me,” Arthur said, thick with sarcasm. “Robbing a heavily armed boat while my woman stands like bait in the middle of a pack of hungry wolves…” He shook his head, his lips curling into a bitter smirk. “Tends to bring out the self-doubt in me.”

Trelawny stopped, turning to face him with a placating smile. “These people are practically idiots, my boy,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Simple stuff. Stick to the plan, and all will go swimmingly.” He motioned for Arthur to follow as they approached the grand double doors ahead. With a flourish, Trelawny pushed them open. “Now, let’s have a good time.”

Arthur stepped into the main room, his senses assaulted by the atmosphere. A faint haze of cigar smoke hovered in the air, mingling with the heady aroma of bourbon and expensive cologne. The clink of glasses, the rustle of fine fabric, and the occasional burst of laughter from the card tables filled the space, yet it all felt distant to him. His eyes darted around, scanning every corner, every detail. 

His gaze locked onto the lawmen standing rigid against the posts that supported the second floor, their presence as imposing as the staircase that curled upward. More officers lined the balcony above, their watchful eyes scanning the room with cold precision. The pit in Arthur’s stomach grew heavier. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to memorize the layout—the exits, the entrances, the obstacles. If this went south, he needed a way out.

Arthur exhaled sharply through his nose, steeling his shoulders as he made his way to an open card table. Relief flickered briefly when he noted the proximity to the stage. Just beyond the velvet curtains, he knew Kate waited, a sense of calm in the storm brewing in his mind. He adjusted his coat and took a seat, settling into the role he was here to play.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a nonchalant wave. “Arthur Callahan. Apologies for my tardiness—had to tend to some unfinished business at the bar.”

The man across from him offered a curt nod. “Desmond Blythe,” he replied smoothly. “Not to worry. Welcome to the game, Mr. Callahan.”

Arthur forced a grin, his hand brushing against the stack of poker chips in front of him. The table was surrounded by well-dressed men, their eyes sharp and calculating. It felt like a world he didn’t belong to—a stage he didn’t want to be on. But at the end of the day, he was a cheat, just like the rest of them. Only dressed in finer clothing. 

But he would play his part. For Kate. For her safety. For the sake of their future. His grip on the chips tightened slightly as he leaned forward, projecting an air of ease to conceal the storm inside.

As the dealer shuffled the deck with methodical precision, the room seemed to hold its breath. Arthur’s focus drifted, the rustle of the cards fading as he caught the sound of the curtains lifting. It was a delicate, almost intimate sound, like a lover’s whispered promise in the quiet of night. The chandelier overhead dimmed, softening the room’s sharp edges. The smaller lights above the card tables glowed like scattered stars against the backdrop of cigar smoke and shadow, as if suspended over a foggy sea.

A servant stepped forward, his voice a polished announcement that faded into the distance of Arthur’s mind as Kate stepped into the spotlight.

And suddenly, the air left his lungs.

The moment her eyes met his, the world seemed to narrow, folding in on itself until nothing existed but her. Those luminous eyes, shimmering with adoration, strength, and devotion, sliced through his soul with the precision of a blade. They didn’t just look at him; they saw him, baring his soul in a way that made him feel both vulnerable and whole. She was everything—divine and untouchable, yet undeniably his. In that instant, Arthur felt unworthy and utterly captivated.

The pianist settled behind her, fingers poised above the keys. A gentle tune began to rise, like the first rays of dawn spilling over a quiet landscape. Kate swayed to its rhythm, her movements subtle but mesmerizing, as if she carried the music in her very bones. The delicate melody wrapped itself around her like a silken veil, enhancing her beauty in ways Arthur couldn’t have imagined possible.

She waited for her cue, and Arthur could feel her energy building. He had heard her rehearse this song with him countless times—each note, each breath etched into his memory—but seeing her here, now, was entirely different.

The song she chose was a ballad from her past, Ancora Qui—I’m Still Here. The notes spilled forth, hopeful yet tinged with mourning, weaving a story of longing, nostalgia, and the quiet ache of time’s passage. Each word seemed to hang in the air, lingering before it drifted into the hearts of everyone in the room. But for Arthur, the song felt like a thread connecting them, a fragile but unbreakable bond.

“I’m still here, you're still you,

but now I know who you are,

who you will always be

and when you see me again,

you will remember.”

It was like she had mastered the language, flowing from her tongue effortlessly. But Arthur knew their meaning. Her voice was a revelation, soft but commanding, carrying the weight of her story, their story, and all the stories left unsaid. It was as if she sang not just for the room but for him alone, a message that spoke of resilience, longing, and the quiet promise of enduring through life’s storms together.

“And I hope you will forgive me.

You, with the same sad eyes.

Look like you are coming back

to ask me about myself.

And how it feels, 

here from the other side,

how does it go.”

Arthur’s chest tightened as the melody poured over him, his hand unconsciously curling into a fist on the table. Every note resonated deeply, as if her voice were the anchor keeping him steady in a chaotic sea. In that moment, he wasn’t Arthur Callahan, the gambler at the table, or even Arthur Morgan, the outlaw who carried too many regrets. 

He was simply hers, and she was his.

The dealer began passing out the cards with precision, the smooth shuffle and snap of the deck cutting through the soft hum of conversation and song. Each card landed effortlessly in front of the players, who instinctively reached for them. Arthur forced himself to tear his gaze away from Kate, her voice still lingering in his mind like the tender caress of her lips against his flesh. It wrapped around his shoulders, steadying him like the wings of a guardian angel, urging him to focus.

With a deep breath, he donned his best poker face, masking the unease roiling in his gut. He needed the night to go by quickly and without incident, a tall order in a room full of armed egos and thinly veiled threats.

Desmond Blythe, seated across the table, leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on Kate as she performed. A sly grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “I’d like to place my winnings on her tonight,” he mused, his tone oozing confidence and arrogance.

The other men chuckled, nodding in agreement, their laughter grating against Arthur’s ears like nails on a chalkboard.

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he picked up his cards. He forced himself to glance at his hand, taking note of his spread. The ache in his chest grew sharper with each passing moment, but he couldn’t let it show. 

He scoffed, shaking his head. “You couldn’t afford her,” he muttered under his breath, low enough to feign indifference but loud enough to make his point.

Desmond’s eyes flicked toward Arthur, his grin sharpening. “Ah, a man with a tongue,” he said, his voice cool but amused. “You seem like a player, Mr. Callahan. Been too many cowards at these tables recently.”

Arthur met Desmond’s gaze with a shrug, his expression unreadable. “Nothing less dignified than a man afraid to lose a little money,” he replied casually, though there was an edge to his voice, like the crack of a whip.

The table went quiet for a moment, tension curling in the air like the smoke from Desmond’s cigar. Then he chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that carried a challenge. “I think this is going to be an interesting night, my friend.”

Arthur didn’t respond immediately. His fingers drummed lightly against the table as he studied Desmond. The man was sharp—too sharp for Arthur’s liking. But also arrogant, the type of gambler who liked to bait his opponents into reckless moves. Arthur knew the type well; he’d been up against men like this before. And he knew how to use it to his advantage.

“I guess we’ll see,” Arthur said finally, calm and almost bored. But beneath the surface, his mind was working fast.

“The green grass, the warm air

on my feet and on the flowers.

Some wind rises up between the colors,

it looks nearly like you.

Even the sky changes its name,

so white that the cotton

which is fast, which moves

lost inside the blue.”

As the next hand began, Arthur risked a quick glance toward the stage. Kate was still singing, her voice calming his fraying nerves. She moved with an effortless grace, commanding the room without breaking a sweat. He tightened his grip on his cards, grounding himself in the knowledge that she was here, within sight.

Arthur spotted Strauss lounging in a chair to the right of Desmond, looking every bit the casual observer. He sipped his drink with an air of detachment, his eyes flicking lazily over the table as if he were merely a disinterested spectator. But Arthur knew better. Strauss was no idle onlooker. His role tonight was critical—he had already met with the dealer, familiarized himself with the cards, and devised a system of subtle cues to guide Arthur’s hand.

Each member of the gang had their part to play tonight, and Strauss’s calm demeanor belied the precision of his task. A tilt of his glass, a scratch of his nose, the way he adjusted his cuff—these seemingly innocuous gestures were the keys to Arthur’s success.

“It’s something in you.

it’s what will come back

as it already was.

How it feels

in this strange world,

how does it go.”

Arthur carefully picked up his hand and fanned the cards in front of him. A pair of tens and a jack. Not great, but not a disaster. He glanced at Strauss, who raised his glass slightly. Call. Arthur matched the current bet with a practiced nonchalance, his fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the table as the dealer burned a card and laid out the flop.

The first three community cards were a ten, a six, and a king. Arthur’s heart gave a small leap—three of a kind. He fought to keep his expression neutral, instead letting his gaze drift to Desmond, whose grin had only widened. Stretching across his face like a predator catching the scent of prey. The man leaned forward, placing a hefty stack of chips in the center of the table.

“Well now,” Desmond drawled, thick with smug assurance. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Mr. Callahan.”

Arthur smirked faintly, just enough to convey the faintest hint of amusement. His eyes flicked toward Strauss, seated unobtrusively nearby. The older man’s subtle adjustment of his cufflink was all the signal Arthur needed. Raise.

With a casual air, Arthur pushed a modest stack of chips forward. His movements were deliberate, his confidence measured—not too eager, not too indifferent. “I think I’ve got enough to keep you interested,” he replied, calm and edged with just enough arrogance to match Desmond’s.

The dealer’s hand moved like clockwork, revealing the turn card: a queen. Arthur’s stomach twisted slightly, the potential for a straight on the board setting his nerves alight. He glanced toward Strauss again, noting the man’s nonchalant sip of his drink. It was a subtle gesture, but one that reassured him. Stay steady.

Desmond leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight as he studied the table. Fingers working along the lines of his greasy mustache. His eyes flicked to Arthur, sharp and devious, before he reached for his chips. The move was slow, calculated, meant to unnerve. He tossed another large stack into the pot, the satisfying clink of chips echoing in the air. 

“Interesting spread,” he remarked, with a casual curiosity that belied the sharp edge of his intent.

Arthur let a small grin tug at the corner of his mouth as he leaned slightly forward, resting his forearms on the table. “That it is,” he replied easily, though his mind was a flurry of calculations. Was Desmond bluffing, or was there something more behind that grin?

The other players shifted in their seats, their eyes darting between Arthur and Desmond. The tension at the table had thickened, the unspoken stakes rising with each passing moment. Arthur glanced down at the pile of chips in the center of the table—a small fortune, and growing.

Arthur picked up his cards, running his thumb along the edge as he feigned a moment of indecision. He reached for his chips. Adding to the pot, his stack noticeably smaller than Desmond’s but enough to keep the game moving. He was playing a risky game, betting it all on Strauss’ cues. 

Desmond chuckled low, the sound rumbling in his chest like thunder. “Oh, I like you,” he said, settling back into his chair. “Let’s see if you’re really worth something.”

“You will come back and I will come back.

You will remember, and I will remember.

I will remember you.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Several hands and countless whiskey glasses later, Arthur’s confidence had ballooned alongside the growing pile of poker chips in front of him. The other men at the table had already folded, their pockets emptied and their spirits dampened, leaving only Arthur and Desmond in the game. Arthur leaned back in his chair, a cocky grin stretching across his face as he watched Desmond spiral, his cool demeanor slipping with every hand lost.  

The dealer laid out the community cards: a seven, a ten, and a jack. Arthur glanced at his hand, the alcohol lending a loose swagger to his movements. His confidence only grew when Desmond called his bet and revealed his cards—a pair of jacks.  

“Ain’t that interestin’,” Arthur drawled, his southern accent exaggerated by the whiskey warming his veins. He set his cards down with a flourish, two queens staring up from the table. “Pair of cowgirls,” he smirked.  

The dealer methodically revealed the turn and river cards—a king and a three. Arthur’s grin widened as the realization sank in: the pot was his. A cool $500 lay before him, and Desmond had nothing left to play with.  

Arthur slapped the table and laughed heartily, scooping the chips toward him in a show of triumph. “I guess my luck held.”  

Desmond stared at the table, his face reddening as he tossed his cards aside in frustration. “Shit… SHIT!”  

Arthur’s grin didn’t waver as he continued to stack his winnings. “Is that you done?” he asked, his tone light and dripping with feigned indifference.  

Desmond looked up sharply, narrowing his eyes. “Done?”  

Arthur counted out a few chips, letting them clink dramatically as he spoke. “You know, bust. Or, uh… you got something else to play with?”  

This was it—the moment Arthur had been angling for all night. The final part of the plan was to push Desmond into a corner, leaving him with no choice but to wager his collateral. He needed to make Desmond believe there was one last shot to redeem himself.  

“Meaning?” Desmond’s tone was cautious, his pride warring with suspicion.  

Arthur leaned back, shrugging with calculated indifference. “Well, I heard there were some big boys on this boat,” he mused, picking at an imaginary speck of dust on his sleeve. “Maybe that’s not you…”  

The bait was set, and Desmond took it. His fist came down hard on the table, sending the poker chips scattering and earning a sharp look from the dealer. “Sit your hillbilly ass back down,” he growled.  

Arthur arched a brow, his grin fading just enough to feign curiosity. “Why?”  

Desmond straightened his posture, puffing up like a rooster in a cockfight. He cleared his throat and leaned forward, voice low and gravelly. “I got a watch. An expensive one, real fine. A Reutlinger, no less. It’s in the safe upstairs.” He paused, lighting a cigar with the ease of a man trying to reclaim his composure. “It’s worth more than your life.”  

Bullseye. Arthur’s grin returned, wider and more predatory this time. The fool had taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker.  

“Well, now,” Arthur said, settling back into his chair with an exaggerated air of ease. He tossed a hefty pile of chips into the pot, letting them fall with a satisfying clatter. “As you wish. Let’s play.”  

Desmond grinned back, but it was strained, his confidence already faltering. The tension at the table was unmistakable, the stakes higher than ever as the game continued. Arthur, for all his swagger and charm, remained focused on the end goal. The plan was working, and Desmond didn’t even know it. 

It was almost too easy, like taking candy from a child. Desmond, desperate to claw his way back to the top, leaned forward with a cocky grin, his voice slick with overconfidence. “All in,” he declared, shoving his remaining chips into the pot.  

Arthur masked his pride with a show of reluctant hesitation. He sighed heavily, furrowing his brow as if genuinely troubled. “Guess I can’t back out now,” he muttered, his tone laced with just enough doubt to sell the act. Slowly, he pushed his pile of chips toward the center of the table.  

The dealer glanced between them, his disinterest barely masked by the motionless raise of an eyebrow. “Gentlemen,” he muttered, dealing out the cards with practiced precision.  

Desmond, unable to contain himself, slapped his cards face up on the table before the community cards were even revealed. “Ha! Pair of Aces,” he announced triumphantly, leaning back with a smug grin.  

Arthur blew out a measured breath, placing his cards to the table with exaggerated care. “Pair of kings,” he said casually, though his tone betrayed a flicker of amusement.  

Desmond’s grin widened. “Very good, Mr. Callahan,” he said, dripping with patronizing satisfaction. “But not good enough.”  

The dealer began flipping over the house cards. A nine, an ace, and a four came first. Desmond smirked as a fire ignited in his eyes, like a dog begging for a bone. He was already tasting victory. But then came the jack, followed by a two—both diamonds.  

The dealer gestured to Arthur’s hand with a flourish, his monotone voice cutting through the room. “Mr. Callahan wins with an ace-high diamond flush.”  

For a moment, the room was utterly silent. Then Arthur leaned back in his chair, letting out a low whistle before he reached forward to collect the mountain of chips. “Yes, you little beauty,” he said with a broad grin, examining his cards as though they had been blessed by the gambling gods.  

Desmond’s face twisted in rage before he quickly masked it, sucking in a sharp breath and forcing himself to sit back down. “God damn you,” he hissed, his voice trembling with barely restrained anger. Catching himself, he added, “N-no offense.”  

“None taken,” Arthur replied easily, his grin widening with a chuckle. He continued stacking his chips, whistling a jaunty tune under his breath as though this were just another day on the job. “Now, forgive my lack of discretion, but, uh... where might I find this watch of yours?”  

Desmond exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening as his mind worked furiously to save face. “It’s upstairs,” he said finally, standing with stiff movements. He smoothed his jacket with an agitated flick of his hand. “Shall we go have a look?”  

Arthur rose from his seat as he straightened his coat. “Why not,” he said nonchalantly.

The two men made their way toward the staircase, Desmond leading the way with a thin veneer of composure while Arthur followed, his eyes scanning the room with the relaxed confidence of a man who knew he had already won far more than a card game. 

The path to the grand staircase was alive with the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter from one of the tables. The air buzzed with energy, the evening in full swing. As Arthur and Desmond made their way toward the opulent structure leading to the second floor, Arthur’s gaze instinctively drifted to the stage.  

Kate was there, leaning casually against the piano as she exchanged a few words with her accompanist. Taking a break between her performances. Her soft laughter cut through the ambient noise, warm and genuine, like a ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. She was smiling, her face radiant under the glow of the stage lights. Arthur’s chest swelled with pride, the weight he was carrying momentarily lifted from his shoulders.  

She had nailed her performance. Every note, every calculated smile, every subtle gesture had landed perfectly. The room had been wrapped around her finger, just as they’d planned. Arthur’s concerns from earlier seemed distant now, dissipating like the smoke from a cigar.  

As they passed, Kate glanced up and caught his eye. For a brief moment, their gazes locked. Arthur gave her a subtle nod—confident, assured. We did it. Her lips curved into the faintest smile, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. The exchange was silent but powerful, a shared acknowledgment of a job well done. Arthur felt a surge of pleasure, a rare moment of triumph coursing through him. The thrill of a successful heist always had him feeling sublime. 

For the first time in weeks, the prospect of a better future didn’t feel like a dream. The gang could finally move on, leave the chaos behind, and start anew. This could be the turning point. This was the start of their future. 

He forced himself to look away, though the image of her smile lingered in his mind. The night wasn’t over yet, and he couldn’t afford to lose focus. But the thought of the evening’s success—and what it meant—had his blood humming with anticipation. He could hardly wait to tell her how proud he was in the private space of their room, though words wouldn’t be his chosen medium of expression.  

Desmond’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You there,” he called, addressing the guard stationed opposite the stage.  

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat when he realized the guard was Javier. His trusted friend had been keeping watch, his rifle at the ready. Arthur felt a flicker of unease at the interruption. Javier’s job was to keep an eye on Kate, ensuring her safety. He didn’t like the idea of him leaving his post.  

Desmond gestured toward the stairs. “Perhaps you could escort us up to the office?”  

Javier straightened, nodding crisply. “Yes, of course, sir.” He picked up his rifle with a practiced ease and stepped forward. “Follow me, gentlemen.”  

Arthur hesitated, his instincts bristling. But the tension slipped away as he reminded himself that they were nearly at the finish line. The hardest part was over. Now it was just a matter of tying up loose ends and walking out with the prize.  

He shot one last glance toward Kate, her laughter ringing in his ears. Then, with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he followed Desmond and Javier up the stairs, the promise of victory spurring him onward.

“Do you know that woman?” Desmond asked casually, his voice just light enough to sound conversational, yet laced with curiosity.  

His sudden question came like a bolt from the blue as they ascended the grand staircase.

Arthur faltered, missing a step. “What? N-no, we just met—well, no, I, uh…” His tongue tripped over itself as he tried to find his footing. “I’ve never met her. This is my first time hearin’ her sing.” His words spilled out clumsily before he managed to rein them in. “Why you askin’?”  

Desmond chuckled, a sly grin tugging at his lips as they reached the top of the stairs and veered left down the carpeted hallway. “She’s been undressing you with her eyes the whole night. You must have some serious luck on you, sir.”  

Arthur felt his face grow uncomfortably warm, a sharp contrast to the cool air drifting through the hallway. “Yeah,” he said with a short, uneasy laugh, scratching at the back of his neck. “I guess so.”  

They trailed behind Javier, who moved with purpose through the corridor, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder. The hallway opened into a lavish lounge where the decadence of the riverboat came into full display. A second bar was alive with activity, bartenders expertly pouring drinks for a crowd of finely dressed men and women of questionable repute. Hookers lounged in booths, draped over their clients like silk scarves, while other patrons whispered in tight circles, their gazes following Arthur as he passed.  

The men’s eyes were cold, predatory, like snakes sizing up their prey. Arthur’s skin prickled with unease. A flicker of doubt wormed its way into his chest, tightening his breath. He hated the idea of leaving Kate downstairs, away from him. Strauss and Trelawny had their own schemes to juggle, and if anything went sideways, she’d be on her own.  

Javier led them through a set of polished double doors, stepping out onto the bow of the ship. The sudden rush of night air was startlingly refreshing. Arthur inhaled deeply, letting the chill cut through the thick haze of cigar smoke and liquor clinging to his senses. The icy breeze kissed his flushed cheeks, his breath puffing visibly in front of him like a phantom as they climbed another flight of stairs toward the captain’s office.  

“I think you’re going to like this watch, Mr. Callahan,” Desmond said, his tone dripping with the kind of casual arrogance that only money could buy. “It really is a handsome piece.” He smirked, as though this were just a minor inconvenience—a trivial dent in his wealth. “Right this way.”  

Javier pushed open the door to the captain’s office, revealing a well-appointed room with polished oak furniture and brass fixtures gleaming under the gaslight. Arthur’s sharp eyes caught the two men already present: the ship’s captain, a stout man with a neatly trimmed mustache, and a uniformed guard standing rigid near the desk.  

Desmond raised a hand, signaling for Arthur and Javier to wait. Arthur nodded, stepping back slightly as he clasped his hands behind him, his gaze drifting over the room. The faint creak of the ship beneath his boots and the distant hum of activity from below filled the silence as Desmond moved to the safe against the wall.  

The faint click of the safe’s lock disengaging was a sound Arthur had heard countless times before, but just as Desmond began to turn the handle, another door opened at the far end of the room. Arthur’s eyes snapped to the figure stepping inside. Their gazes locked, and for an instant, everything stopped.  

His pulse thundered in his ears, his breath catching in his throat. The man’s expression shifted, recognition sparking in his eyes like a struck match.  

Arthur’s heart dropped. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate gave a short bow from center stage, the spotlight warming her skin, her gown flowing like liquid gold around her as she finished her song. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt alive—a rare sensation these days, at the mayor’s garden party she felt beautiful and elegant only for a fleeting evening. But tonight? Tonight, she was the star. The crowd’s admiration filled her chest with a different kind of confidence she hadn’t known in years, and for a moment, the weight of her illness and the strain in her body had melted away. A smile graced her cheeks as she realized she was having genuine fun.

Her voice, steady and rich, wove through the night air, each note hit with precision, capturing the room’s attention and holding it there. They were all watching her, their eyes fixed, entranced by the music and the way she commanded the space. Some even paused their card games and drinking to listen. The energy in the room, buzzing and alive, lifted her high.

But through it all, there was one constant—Arthur. His broad, familiar frame and that confident grin lighting up his face. The storm of nerves and excitement she felt every time she sang seemed to quiet in his presence, as though his very gaze could calm the jittery flutter of butterflies of her stomach. Yet even as his presence steadied her, she couldn’t quite ignore the sharp ache in her chest, the weariness in her bones. The ship swayed beneath her feet, and despite the thrill of the night, her illness clung to her like a shadow.

She knew she was pushing herself too far, but she couldn’t stop—not now. The applause, the attention, the sense of purpose—it was intoxicating. But after a few more songs, she made the decision to let herself rest.

The poker players had already finished a few rounds by then, their voices drifting up from below, blending with the soft laughter and clinking glasses. Some had moved to the second floor to socialize, others to the bar for another drink. Arthur passed by her, making his way up the grand staircase, shooting her a smile that told her everything she needed to know. The night was a success. 

Her pianist, Vin, was a steady presence beside her, the perfect musical companion. His fingers had danced effortlessly over the piano keys, matching her every note, creating a melody that intertwined with her voice like magic. His talent was undeniable, and Kate found herself grateful for his partnership tonight. He was young—so much younger than she—and his skill was extraordinary. She had no doubt that one day his name would echo across the great concert halls of the world.

Vin leaned toward her, his voice warm with mirth as he carried on their conversation. “My father wants me to join the union, slaving away in the coal mines with him. But I think I’d rather die first.” He laughed.

Kate chuckled softly, shaking her head as she adjusted her posture leaning against the piano. “Well, you’re not your father. You’re your own man,” she said, gentle but firm, as though she were offering him the world’s most precious secret.

She watched him for a moment, his youthful face lit with the fire of his dreams, and it made her heart ache in a way she hadn’t expected. He reminded her so much of her brother—so young, so full of life. It was the cruel hand of fate that had stolen her brother away so long ago, and she couldn’t help but feel the sting again. The same coal dust, the same mines, had taken his life far too early.

Her expression softened, and she placed a hand on his arm. “Man? No," she corrected gently, almost to herself. “You’re just a kid. Your life is just beginning, Vin. You’ve got so much ahead of you. You’re smart, you’re talented... you’ve got all the time in the world to make this life whatever you want it to be.”

She gave him a smile, not just for him but for the hope she wished for herself— a hope she had nearly forgotten. Her hand subconsciously rubbed over her belly. 

Vin returned the smile, and looked down bashfully, a flush creeping up to his ears and he idly poked at the ivory keys. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, when a sudden noise caught her attention. 

From three stories up, the sound of gunfire cut through the air like distant whispers of thunder. The cracks were faint but sharp, the rhythm unsettling—three quick pops in succession. Each shot seemed to linger for a moment, hanging in the air before it scattered, ricocheting off the walls, fading into the chaos below. The noise was swallowed by the hum of the crowd, as though it never happened at all.

Kate's heart skipped a beat, the fear shooting up her spine like a dart lodged in her back. Her blood ran cold, instincts prickling with warning. She glanced frantically around the room, but no one else seemed to notice the gunfire. The patrons of the hall continued to talk and laugh, the click of dice and the shuffle of cards blending together. There was no panic, no rush to take cover. They were completely oblivious.

She shook her head, trying to push the unease away. Maybe it’s just the nerves from the performance, she thought. Maybe it’s nothing. But the faint, hollow pops still echoed in her mind, each one sending a ripple of dread through her chest. Something wasn’t right. Her instincts told her to act—she couldn’t ignore it.

Excusing herself from the stage, she moved quickly towards the bar, weaving through the dense crowd of gamblers. The noise was a blur of voices and clinking glasses. Her dress, heavy with layers of fabric, caught on chair legs, tugged by the movement of people passing by. With each step, she huffed out an annoyed breath, lifting the ruffles of her gown to avoid tripping. She quickened her pace, heels clicking against the wooden floor.

Trelawny was chatting casually with a group of patrons leaning against the bar. She caught sight of him, laughing too loudly, his voice thick with alcohol. His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright with the kind of joviality that only came from too many drinks. Kate’s eyes narrowed. There was no time for small talk.

She reached him, placing a gloved hand firmly on his shoulder. He turned to face her with a broad smile, his mannerisms exaggerated, as he was putting on a performance for the crowd.

"Ah! The beautiful songbird graces us with her presence. To what do I owe the pleasure, my dear?" he said with a flourish, introducing her to the people around him like she was a guest of honor.

Kate’s fingers tightened on his arm. “I need to speak to you,” she said, voice low and hurried. Leaving little room for pleasantries.

Trelawny raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Oh my, a bit forward, aren’t we?” he teased, winking flirtatiously.

Her grip tightened, pulling him closer. She met his eyes with an intensity that stopped him cold. "Josiah," she said, steady but laced with urgency. "This is serious."

The teasing faded from his face. His eyes shifted slightly, reading the tension in her. His posture changed, becoming more guarded. “What troubles you?” he asked, dropping his voice to a whisper.

Kate glanced around the room, her gaze sweeping over the crowd to make sure no one was eavesdropping. She leaned in closer, lowering her voice to match his. “I think Arthur might be in some kind of trouble. Someone needs to check on him.”

Trelawny’s expression hardened, the playful air evaporating. He paused, processing her words, his mind calculating the possibilities. There was a long beat of silence before he nodded, his demeanor shifting into one of purpose. He started to move away from the bar, but then his gaze caught two familiar figures descending the staircase.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his smile returning but colder this time, voice pitched lower. "No need to worry, darling," he said lightly, though his eyes remained sharp. “Here comes the man of the hour himself.”

Kate turned, her gaze following his, and there they were—Arthur and Javier, descending the staircase with purpose. Their movements were quick yet deliberate, as if every step carried the weight of urgency. Relief washed over her when Arthur’s eyes met hers, but the feeling was short-lived. There was something behind his gaze she couldn’t place, something raw and unnerving, mirroring the anxiety that had been building in her chest.

He gave her a reluctant smile, but it was hollow, not reaching his eyes. When he reached the bar, he moved quickly, his hand coming to rest around her waist as he turned her away from the staircase, shielding her with his body. His grip was firm—too firm—and his touch burned with tension.

It was then she saw it. His knuckles, cracked and bloody, told a story he hadn’t yet spoken aloud. His shoulders were taut, his posture rigid, like a bowstring pulled to its limit. Ready to snap. The air around him seemed to hum with dread, his unease radiating off him like heat waves rising from the desert. Kate’s heart thudded heavily in her chest. 

Something had gone terribly wrong.

Before she could ask, the sharp cry of the steam whistle tore through the room, its wail slicing the noise. Ringing loudly in her ears. The sound reverberated off the walls, amplifying the panic that was spreading like wildfire among the passengers. People glanced around in confusion, voices rising in alarm. Across the hall, guards scrambled to ready their rifles, the metallic clatter of weapons adding to the chaos.

Kate’s breath hitched, and she spun to face Arthur. “Arthur, what did you do?” she shouted, strained as it fought to cut through the cacophony.

His eyes locked onto hers, and what she saw froze her in place. They were hollow, drained of color, as if a shadow had crept into his soul and stolen the light. He looked like a man haunted, his expression a mix of fear and something darker—surrender. As if he had given himself fully to the violence that often tore at his mind. His voice, when it came, was a low strained growl.

“I did what I had to.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Hugo Fucking Abernathy. 

The same pompous, self-important collector Arthur had relieved of a prized family brooch for Mary’s sake just the day before. Abernathy moved with a stiff arrogance, his finely tailored coat doing little to hide the puffed-up ego of a man who thought himself untouchable—until Arthur had proven otherwise. The evidence of their encounter was plain as day: a swollen, purpling bruise encircled his left eye, and a single stitch upon a busted lip. The skin was still tender and angry. It was a gift Arthur had delivered with a well-placed fist, and by the stiffness in Abernathy’s posture, it was clear he hadn’t forgotten.

Arthur straightened, his jaw tightening as he adjusted his stance. He kept his head bowed low, hoping the dim light would shield him. He turned slightly, as if studying the ledgers piled on the captain’s desk, but his ears honed in on Abernathy's voice.

He risked a glance, only to be sure, his gaze flicking to Hugo’s face. The collector’s good eye twitched, his expression suddenly sharpening as if a thread in his mind had been plucked. His gaze lingered on Arthur for a fraction too long.

“Wait…” Abernathy’s voice faltered, a seed of recognition blooming into full blown panic. His hand shot out, pointing directly at Arthur. “It’s you! The thief! You’re the bastard who robbed me yesterday!”

The room froze, the accusation hanging heavy in the air. Arthur caught Javier's subtle fixed look from the corner of his eye. Silently asking, what now? The captain stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the wooden floor.

“Now, let’s not be rash,” the captain said, his tone even but edged with caution.

But Abernathy wasn’t listening. His face flushed with anger and humiliation, and his hand darted toward his own weapon, fumbling with the holster. “Guards! Guards, this man is a criminal!”

The tension snapped like a taut wire. He nodded to Javier, who understood the assignment immediately. They needed to get out, and fast. Arthur surged forward, his instincts taking over as Abernathy’s hand closed around his pistol. The captain shouted something—perhaps an order, or maybe a warning—but the chaos drowned him out.

Javier raised his rifle with a sharp, deliberate motion, bringing the butt of it crashing down onto the temple of the nearest guard. The sound was sickening—a dull, wet thud followed by the crack of bone. The guard crumpled to the ground, blood trickling from a split in his scalp. Javier’s rifle swung back up in a fluid arc, now trained on Desmond, who staggered back with his hands raised, his eyes wide with terror.

Arthur’s chest heaved as his pulse thundered in his ears. His gaze locked onto Abernathy, whose pallid face was frozen in a grotesque mixture of fear and indignation. Arthur’s lips curled into a sneer, his voice a low, venomous growl. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

The words dripped with fury, but they weren’t just words—they were a promise. Arthur surged forward, a storm of rage and violence. His fist collided with Abernathy’s jaw, a brutal, bone-jarring impact that sent the man staggering. Arthur grabbed him before he could hit the ground, dragging him upright like a puppet.

Torment and doubt churned within Arthur, warring with the blinding fury that had taken hold. This was the part of himself he both feared and embraced—the part that felt nothing but the raw, savage satisfaction of dominance. He wasn’t a man in these moments. Not like a creature that was born, but rather a fire that was set. Consuming everything in its path.

“You’re a dead man,” Arthur hissed through gritted teeth, his breath hot against Abernathy’s face. 

One hand clamped down around the man’s throat, fingers digging into the soft flesh, while the other wrenched the pistol from his trembling grip. Abernathy sputtered and clawed at Arthur’s arm, his nails raking against fabric and skin, but Arthur didn’t relent.

Abernathy’s eyes darted wildly, his lips moving soundlessly as if searching for some plea that might save him. Arthur shoved him against the wall, the dull thud of his skull meeting wood reverberating through the room.

The cold barrel of the pistol pressed against Abernathy’s chin, the metal slick with sweat and shaking ever so slightly as Arthur’s hand trembled—not with fear, but with uncontainable rage.

“Please…” Abernathy croaked, hoarse and wet with desperation.

Arthur didn’t hear it. Or maybe he just didn’t care. In that moment, there was nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat, the deafening roar of anger that drowned out reason.

He pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was ringing in the enclosed space, a sharp, echoing crack that seemed to stretch into eternity. Blood sprayed upward in a crimson arc, splattering the walls and ceiling in a macabre display. Abernathy’s body went limp instantly, his lifeless eyes staring blankly as his head lolled to the side.

Arthur let the body drop, his hand still gripping the pistol tightly. Blood dripped from his knuckles, mixing with the crimson pool spreading across the floor. His chest rose and fell, each breath ragged and shallow.

Behind him, Javier shifted uneasily, his rifle still at the ready. “Arthur, we need to go. Now.”

Arthur didn’t respond. The fire in his chest hadn’t dimmed; if anything, it burned hotter. Slowly, he turned toward the captain who was already backing away, his hands raised in trembling surrender.

“Please, sir,” the old man began, his voice breaking as he tried to keep it steady. “Your quarrel with this man is no business of mine. Let’s all sit down and—”

Arthur raised the gun, and he froze mid-sentence, his lips parted. The words died in his throat as Arthur’s finger tightened on the trigger.

The second shot rang out in the confined space. The bullet struck him square between the eyes, snapping his head back violently. A red mist filled the air as it splattered across the wooden console behind him. The impact sent the man’s body careening backward over the ship’s wheel. He hit the floor with a sickening thud, his lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling.

Arthur didn’t even flinch.

The room was silent for a beat, save for the sound of Arthur’s labored breathing. His grip on the pistol tightened, his knuckles white, as he stared down at the carnage.

“Arthur…” Javier’s voice was softer now, cautious.

Desmond let out a strangled gasp from the corner of the room. “Oh, God,” he whispered, his voice shaking as his hands rose defensively. “Please! T-take whatever you want from the safe! I won’t say a thing, I swear!”

Arthur turned to face him, the pistol still gripped tightly in his hand. His eyes burned with a cold, detached fury, but there was something else behind them—something darker, heavier. Regret. It clawed at his insides, twisting like a knife. Leaving scars on his soul. 

Their luck had turned on a dime, but deep down, Arthur knew this was always how it would end. He felt like a fool for ever believing things might go smoothly. And he hated himself even more knowing he’d dragged Kate into this mess. The thought of her in danger because of his choices churned his stomach. He should’ve trusted his instincts. Should’ve made her stay home, even if it meant tying her to a chair. But he didn’t, and now the weight of that failure hung on him like a noose, tightening with every breath.

Desmond fell to his knees, his hands clasped together in a desperate plea. “Please, sir! I’ve got a family—a little girl! I-I’ll give you whatever you want! I’ve got money!”

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Arthur stared down at the sniveling man before him, his chest rising and falling with the effort of keeping his emotions in check. Desmond's once arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by a pale, quivering mask of fear. Arthur’s jaw tightened as he took in the sight, a sickening satisfaction curling in his gut. It was his doing—his fury, his violence—that had shattered the man’s smug façade, and for a fleeting second, it felt like justice. But the satisfaction was hollow, tainted by the weight of everything it had cost them.

“You think I haven’t heard that before?” Arthur’s voice was low, almost gentle, but the gravity behind it was crushing. His hand trembled slightly as he raised the gun, the barrel leveling with Desmond’s forehead.

Desmond sobbed, his shoulders shaking. “I’m begging you, Arthur. Please I’m sorry—”

Arthur’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as he fought against the tide of anger and sorrow threatening to overwhelm him. For a brief moment, he saw his reflection in Desmond—he pictured himself, on his knees, staring down his own death. The desperation, the fear, the willingness to do anything to survive. 

A father begging for one more chance. 

Kate’s voice echoed in the back of his mind, a desperate, pleading whisper begging him to put the gun down. To stop before it was too late. Do the right thing, Arthur. There’s still time. But her words felt distant, muted, like they were coming from somewhere far away, distorted as if he were submerged underwater. The pull of her voice fought against the roaring tide of his rage, but it wasn’t enough to break through.

“I’m sorry too,” Arthur murmured.

The shot rang out, and Desmond’s plea was silenced. His body jerked violently before crumpling to the floor, blood pooling beneath him. Arthur stared down at the lifeless form, his grip on the pistol slackening as the weight of it clattered to the floor. What he’d done settled over him like wet cement.

He wasn’t a man anymore. He was something else, something primal and unforgiving. And yet, beneath the rage and violence, a deep sadness gnawed at him, threatening to hollow him out entirely.

“Arthur!” Javier’s shout snapped him out of his daze. “We’ve got to move. Now.”

Arthur nodded stiffly, his body trembling as he fought to steady his ragged breathing and calm the furious pounding of his heart. He tore his gaze away from the carnage, the metallic tang of blood heavy in the air and clinging to his throat. His boots squelched slightly against the floor, leaving dark, bloody prints as he turned toward the door. He didn’t dare look back.

Outside the office, the chaos was eerily quiet, the silence almost suffocating. Only the hurried thud of their boots echoed down the stairs and through the narrow corridors, each step dragging them closer to whatever fight awaited. Arthur’s hand came up to his face, wiping away a mix of blood and sweat, leaving smudges across his skin. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to focus, shoving the storm of emotions back into the pit where they belonged.

“The alarm will sound any second,” Javier muttered, glancing back. “We don’t have much time.”

Arthur’s reply was low, flat, and void of anything but grim resolve. “We regroup with Kate and the others,” his words like iron. “Then we get the fuck off this ship.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Complete disorder and anarchy poured forth in the blink of an eye. Screams filled the air as passengers scattered like leaves in a storm, overturning chairs and smashing glasses in their frantic bid to escape. The cacophony of shouts and breaking glass was deafening. Kate's chest tightened, the panic clawing up her throat as the guards raised their rifles, their barrels gleaming in the dim light. Arthur moved without hesitation, his body a wall of protection as he pressed her against the bar, shielding her from their line of fire.

“Get down!” one of the lawmen barked, cutting through the din as he took aim.

Arthur’s hand shot out, seizing a barstool by its leg. With a roar of effort, he hurled it at the guard. The stool connected with a sickening crunch, sending the man sprawling to the ground. Kate froze, her wide eyes locked on Arthur as the raw power radiating from him seemed to fill the room. She thought she had known him—seen every facet of his being—but this primal, violent side was something else entirely.

He said something to her urgently, but it was drowned out by the thunder of gunfire and the pounding of her own heartbeat. Her corset squeezed her ribs like sin as she fought to draw breath, every inhale shallow and desperate. The metallic scent of gunpowder stung her nose, adding to the dizzying swirl of sensations.

Nearby, Strauss and Trelawny darted through the chaos, their figures disappearing into the sea of fleeing bodies. Javier was only a few feet away, his rifle barking round after round as he shouted something unintelligible over the melee.

Kate's instincts screamed at her to run. She had no weapon, and no means of defense in her heavy gown. Her pulse thundered as her feet moved on their own, ready to bolt for any semblance of safety. But before she could take more than a step, Arthur’s arm locked around her waist. With ease, he hoisted her onto the bar, his strength momentarily taking her breath away. Confusion flickered across her face, but it vanished as he shoved her backward, guiding her behind the bar's shelter.

“Stay down, and stay with me,” he commanded, edging with a desperation she could feel in her bones.

Arthur moved with purpose, reaching beneath the bar and finding the rifle stashed there—a precaution every barkeep worth his salt knew to take. Relief flickered in his eyes for a fleeting moment as his hands gripped the familiar weight of the weapon.

The sharp crack of gunfire punctuated the chaos, each shot tightening the knot of dread coiled in Arthur’s stomach. He moved on instinct, his mind a whirlwind of emotions buried deep beneath a layer of practiced focus. He couldn’t afford to be vulnerable, not with Kate's life hanging in the balance.

The anger he felt toward himself burned like a furnace, fueling his every motion. She shouldn’t have been here. He shouldn’t have let her come. He’d made a mistake—a deadly one—and now the weight of it pressed down on him as heavily as the rifle in his hands.

The words he couldn’t say clawed at the back of his throat as he scanned the room for their next move. Regret. Fear. Guilt. They all churned within him, but there was no time to dwell on them now. He tightened his grip on the rifle and prepared for whatever hell was coming next.

Kate’s breath was ragged, clawing at her chest as panic swirled within her like a storm. Her hands trembled as they fumbled at the tight corset, desperate to loosen the constricting fabric that seemed to tighten with every breath. The world spun around her, the ship rocking against the river, its erratic movement only adding to the dizziness in her head and roiling in her stomach. Her heart thundered in her chest, breaths coming in quick, shallow pants.

The stench of gunpowder mixed with the iron tang of blood made her stomach churn. She felt something wet beneath her gloves, sticky and foreign, and for a terrifying moment, she feared it was her blood. But when she looked down, all she saw were shards of glass and spilled whiskey pooling around her, dark and viscous, like fallen stars scattered across the floor.

“Arthur...” Her voice broke as it slipped from her lips—soft, desperate, and raw, like a wounded animal pleading for its life. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force her mind into focus, willing herself to breathe deeply, to regain control.

Suddenly, a sharp grip on her arm yanked her roughly to her feet. A strangled yelp tore from her throat as she jerked back, but the moment she looked up, she saw him. 

Arthur Morgan.

Without a word, she leaned into him, her body trembling against his as she whispered, “A-Arthur, I can’t breathe.” The panic in her voice made his chest ache, his protective instinct kicking in as he tightened his grip around her.

“C’mon sweetheart, we gotta move,” he urged, softer than she expected, but it trembled with the weight of what they’d just been through. His heart wrenched when he saw the fear in her eyes, the way her body shook under his touch. He could feel her fear like a snake coiled around his own chest, crushing him.

She was trembling in his arms, but it wasn’t just from the chaos—it was him. He was the cause of this fear, of this vulnerability. And in that moment, it felt like the world had come crashing down around him. He wasn’t sure how to fix this—how to make it better. All he could do was hold her, guide her through the madness, and hope that somehow, they’d make it out alive.

Pulling her from behind the bar, Arthur tried his best to shield Kate from the horrors strewn across the room. The lifeless bodies, twisted and broken, lay in pools of blood that reflected the shattered lights above. Chairs and tables were overturned, glass shards glittering like jagged stars on the ground. The acrid stench of gunpowder mixed with a sickly metallic scent filled the air, suffocating and heavy.

Arthur led her after Javier, weaving through the carnage and into the narrow corridors in search of an escape. He knew the odds were stacked against them. They couldn’t just take a rowboat—the open water would leave them vulnerable, exposed. Yet, for Kate’s safety, he’d fight through every guard, every impossible hurdle, even the devil himself.

The sound of boots thundering down the hallway made Arthur spin, his hand on Kate’s arm as three guards rushed into view. Gunshots exploded, ringing sharply in the confined space as Javier fired off rounds. Arthur shoved Kate into the nearest room, slamming the door shut behind them.

The room was dark, the air stale and quiet save for the muffled chaos outside. A thin beam of light streamed through a gap in the heavy red velvet curtains that led to the main room. Kate’s breath hitched, her mind racing as realization dawned. This was the stage room. 

“Vin?” she called, her voice trembling as she pushed herself off the wall. Ignoring the ache in her chest, she began frantically searching the room. Her hands tore open closets, peered into corners, and clawed through shadows, her voice growing louder, more desperate with every unanswered call.

Arthur stayed near the door, his back pressed to it as he fired at any movement in the corridor. Between rounds, he glanced back at Kate, her panic slicing through him like a blade.

Kate’s search slowed as her gaze fell on the curtains. They fluttered softly in the cold draft from the open door, beckoning her. A sick dread twisted her stomach as she pulled them aside.

There, on the stage, was Vin.

Her breath caught in her throat, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis. His young body slumped against the piano, head lolled at an unnatural angle. Blood streaked the white keys, dripping onto the stage below. His face—or what was left of it—was an ugly ruin. The gaping hole where his eye had been was surrounded by torn flesh and splintered bone. Pieces of him, pieces she remembered so vividly—his wide grin, the dimple in his cheek, the light in his eyes—were now scattered across the black piano like a butcher’s table.

One of life's biggest cruelties; being caught in the wrong moment at the wrong time.

Kate staggered back, her vision swimming as bile rose in her throat. She turned away, clutching at the wall for support, and retched violently. Her stomach emptied onto the floor until there was nothing left, her body convulsing as sobs tore from her chest. The room spun, her knees buckling under the weight of her grief.

“Oh god,” she choked, gasping for air as tears blinded her. “Oh my god, Vin!”

Arthur was at her side in an instant, his hand steady and firm on her back as she heaved. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to offer empty words of comfort. Instead, he reached out and pulled the curtain closed, his jaw tightening as he caught a glimpse of the stage.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, the image searing itself into his memory. He turned back to Kate, voice low and urgent. “We have to go, Kate. We can’t stay here.”

Arthur pulled Kate’s trembling body up, his arm steady as he guided her toward the door. She moved like a ghost, her legs stumbling beneath her, her mind shattered.

“H-he was just a kid, Arthur,” she whispered, thick with unspeakable sorrow. The sound of it cut his soul deeper than anything ever could.

“I know, baby,” Arthur said, his tone soft, though the urgency in his eyes betrayed his own turmoil. “But we gotta keep moving. Just a little longer.”

Javier peeked into the corridor and nodded; the coast was clear for the moment. Arthur tightened his grip on Kate’s hand and whispered, “We gotta run now, alright? Just hold on to me.”

Kate swallowed the lump in her throat, her hot tears still streaming down her cold cheeks. With shaking hands, she wiped at her face and nodded. Arthur managed a small, pained smile and squeezed her hand. “That’s my girl.”

They bolted into the night, the bitter cold gnawing at Kate’s exposed skin like a predator. Her dress clung to her legs, heavy and dragging her down with every desperate step, as if the fabric itself sought to betray her. The wind howled around them, its icy fingers slicing through the thin material and biting at her cheeks until they burned. Her sobs, raw and unending, were snatched away by the roaring gusts, leaving her chest heaving in silence as her tears froze to her skin.

Arthur’s hand in hers was a lifeline, his grip strong and unyielding. The rough calluses of his palm pressed firmly into her own, grounding her in a way nothing else could. It was more than just a physical hold—it was a steady reassurance that no matter how dark and unforgiving the night became, he wouldn’t let her go. Through the biting cold and the pounding of her own heart, that grip was the only thing that kept her from sinking into darkness.

Javier led the way across the hull, and when they reached the bow, he glanced over his shoulder. “We gotta jump!” he shouted over the roar of the wind and water. “The others are already in the river. No time left—vamanos!”

Without hesitation, Javier vaulted over the guard rail and vanished into the churning abyss below. Kate froze, her breath catching as she stared at the Lanahachee River. Its dark waters twisted and writhed like a living thing, crashing against the ship with a relentless, hungry fury. Each wave clawed at the hull, rising and falling with a deafening roar. The white foam frothing like the teeth of a beast. The faint lights of Saint Denis flickered on the horizon, their serene glow a cruel contrast to the chaos around her, as if the city itself was mocking her terror.

It whispered to her—abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

Arthur stepped over the railing, his boots squeaked as they gripped the slick metal. He turned to her, his hand outstretched. “C’mon, darlin’. I promise—it’ll be alright.”

But his words rang hollow, an empty comfort against the reality before them. The river was a churning tempest, its currents violent and unforgiving, ready to drag anything beneath its black surface. Even if they survived the fall, the odds of making it to shore were slim at best. Kate’s legs felt like stone, refusing to move as her heart thundered painfully in her chest, each beat a reminder of the uncertainty that loomed.

“I can’t,” she whimpered, tears returning to streak her already tear-soaked face.

Arthur glanced behind her, spotting the flash of metal and the heavy stomps of boots. The guards were closing in. He reached back and grabbed her waist, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m sorry love, but we don’t have a choice.”

“No!” she screamed, “No, no, please!” Pushing against him with what little strength she had left.

Arthur clenched his jaw, his heart aching at her resistance. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, more to himself than to her. 

A massive wave slammed into the side of the ship, sending icy spray cascading over them like shards of glass. The deck bucked violently beneath their feet, tilting sharply as the world seemed to lurch sideways. Kate’s scream ripped through the chaos, raw and desperate, as she instinctively reached for Arthur’s steadying hand. But when the ship groaned and righted itself, the space beside her was empty.

He was gone, swallowed by the abyss below.

“Arthur!” she screamed, raw and ragged as she lunged for the edge. The spray soaked her dress, and her eyes frantically searched the dark, rolling waves. There was no sign of him, no reassuring voice calling her back.

Her knees hit the railing, trembling as she braced to throw herself after him, her sobs choked and frantic. But before she could leap, something hard and unyielding struck the back of her skull with a sickening crack. The world erupted in a searing burst of white-hot pain, her vision splintering into blinding stars. The cold bite of the metal railing dug into her ribs as she swayed, bile surging up her throat. The roar of the river below seemed to call her, and she teetered on the edge, her body dangerously close to collapse.

“Kate!” a familiar voice roared from the darkness, full of desperation.

Everything faded to black. Her thoughts dissolved into a void, and all the pain, fear, and desperation slipped away, leaving only an empty, cold darkness.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur’s mind and heart waged a brutal war, each strike tearing into the fragile remnants of his humanity. Clawing at his consciousness, rending the flesh of his soul, the agony was relentless. The icy water gnawed at his skin, but he barely felt it. The surge of adrenaline that kept his body moving was nothing more than a hollow echo in the void that had consumed him.

He stared, a deadened numbness suffusing his being, as the guards dragged her away. His woman. His Kate. His entire world. Ripped from him in a heartbeat, and it was all his doing. His fault.

A cruel, familiar voice slithered into his mind—a ghost from the days when he drowned himself in whiskey, trying to forget how he had failed the mother of his child and only son. Doomed to repeat the same mistakes.

Did you forget Arthur? No sleep for the wicked. Not for you.

The words coiled around his heart like a noose, pulling tighter with every beat. His gut twisted as the truth seeped into his marrow. 

You have blood on your hands. On your lips. On your teeth.

The weight of it crushed him, suffocating him beneath the silence of his own guilt. The river surged around him, uncaring, as the voice whispered its condemnation.

You can’t outrun it. You never will. You’re a curse and death follows you like a shadow.

It’s mocking echo rang in his ears.

Smile, Arthur. You’re the Devil’s favorite joke.

AN: I fear this chapter was kinda all over the place. The switching POVs probably got a little confusing. But WHEW! Talk about that ending huh? I had a few ideas for how this would go, but I think this makes the most sense. I hate torturing them, the last scene with Arthur was gut wrenching to write. But the show must go on.

Thank you for reading, I really enjoy writing this fic and seeing all your feedback. It means so much to me <3

Below are some inspo pics for Kate's dress!!

[zonedelicious]

In the X-Men fandom this scene is constantly brought up to call the character Noriko racist, call the entire book racist, and even call the fans and writers racist. And as a Muslim fan of Academy X I am very confused at this harsh reaction because to me it is obvious the story is siding with Sooraya.

For starters X-Men can be very VERY racist and islamophobic. I've recently been reading Claremont's New Mutants and it's painful how racist that book is to Arabs. I wanted to stop reading because of the racism.

But I do not get this reaction from Academy X, which is my favourite X-Men book.

I think a lot of people don't know what kind of book Academy X is. Academy X is a book about delinquents. The main characters are a bunch of asshole kids. The appeal to me is seeing these shitty kids grow and become better people. Yes they make mistakes that's the point. They're stupid kids.

Noriko is one of these kids. She was homeless at a young age because of the poor relationship with her family and because of this she's afraid of ever showing any vulnerability. Choosing to rather lash out at others. It's a realistic coping mechanism.

The scene with Sooraya shows this as Noriko is projecting her own trauma onto a poor girl who only wanted to be nice to her. Yes it's shitty but that's the point. We're seeing how their personalities and viewpoints clash, and how Sooraya is challenging Noriko's beliefs.

I do not see how anyone can read this as the book being racist when the scene even shows Sooraya sad. Something like this never happens when an X-Men book is actually islamophobic. Yet people never react as harshly to actually racist X-Men books as they do to this.

It's actually very similar to a scene at the start of Ms Marvel, where Zoe is racist to Nakia. We can clearly see both scenes are suppose to make you feel uncomfortable and make you side with the Muslim girl. And both Zoe and Noriko are humanized despite being bullies.

We even get a conclusion. Some say this isn't enough, but remember that Noriko refuses to show emotions, so the fact she's willing to go against her instincts here is interesting. It's more interesting to me than simply having a generic anti racism speech.

Again Sooraya is entirely humanized here. The comic is understanding of her struggle. I do disagree with the way she's drawn at times, but the writing makes her a character I could relate to. And reading this conclusion only makes me more interested in both characters.

Sadly neither character ever got a proper character arc after the comic ended. But to me that just makes me wish there were more comics of this group where we do see Sooraya and Noriko become close friends like Nakia and Zoe. It makes me think of writing my own story with them.

I love this book and what it means for Sooraya. I love seeing Sooraya's relationship with the Hellions, Jay and Laura. This is still her definitive comic, so why are we dismissing it entirely because of one scene that exists to make us relate to her?

It's very strange that this one scene, that to me is well made and relatable, is being used as a way to hate the characters, the comic, and everyone who likes it. Most hate isn't even coming from Muslims so is it just performative outrage and misunderstanding?

Or maybe this scene hits at home for some people? With the conversation being very realistic and grounded, people may see themselves in Noriko. Maybe they had a similar reaction towards a Muslim girl and are remembering it.

Noriko's stance isn't even that different from ex Muslim feminists who say similar things. The issue is how she is projecting onto Sooraya. And maybe that's what makes people uncomfortable. The complexity this conversation has in the real world.

Whatever it may be, Noriko still clearly grows after this arc. We do see her become a great leader who stands up for her friends. And even if she has issues to deal with, she was slowly becoming a better person.

In conclusion I love this book because it's relatable in how it portrays its characters. I like Sooraya being a Muslim character who's also a protagonist and a big part of the story. I hope more people give this book a chance and see the charm of it that I see.

Anyway time to go listen to anime music and imagine my OCs hanging out with the Academy X kids (need to draw that one day).

[epickiya722]

Do you think the reason people misunderstand Midoriya, Bakugou, Uraraka, etc. is because they misunderstand Horikoshi himself?

Like, people say chapter 431 doesn't contribute to the story, but I think that's wrong to an extent, since it does give closure to Ochako's character arc, which is her dealing about her feelings for Izuku (Hori probably got bored of the money to her parents motivation, since it's never brought up again). I think Izuku/Ochako was always Horikoshi's intention since he does mention that he planned her and Izuku to have several scenes, but like many shonen authors, he simply sucks at writing a proper romance or developing a female lead beyond pining for the hero, leading to Ochako becoming less prominent as he couldn't find a better role for her outside of being the token heroine that deals with the token female villain.

(His treatment of other female characters in this manga is also not the best it could be, but that's a talk for another day)

Meanwhile, he became more invested in writing Bakugou, likely due to popularity reasons (Horikoshi is famously scared of cancellation due to prior traumas with Oumagadoki Zoo and Barrage. It's why we had annual popularity polls). As a consequence, the relationship between Izuku and Katsuki became a lot more focused, which contributed to the popularity of the ship. However, I don't think this was ever intentional from Horikoshi's part, since again, he doesn't know how to write a proper romance, let alone a queer one. It's his own take of a Naruto/Sasuke-esque rivalry with lots of emotional tension, which he DOES know how to write due to growing up with Naruto, and it's arguably better written because he actually tries to explore the psyches of everyone involved. But at no point I think he even considered making an actual gay couple, especially since his exploration of rather sensitive topics like LGBT rights and racism are not particularly well-thought, even if well-meaning. Magne and Toga end up evil and dead simply for trying to find liberty in an oppressive society, and Shoji's discrimination plotline is squished in the story at the last minute despite its inherent potential. This all tells me that he's not really this overly progressive, status quo-shattering mangaka that some people believe him to be, he's just a guy writing a superhero story that sometimes deals with social issues, akin to the X-Men.

In the end, I think Horikoshi just decided to end things the way he planned from the start, while not giving much thought to the middle. He did make Ochako's feelings a plot point, so he had to give some closure to that, but alas, he didn't give it the development it deserved beforehand. It was always in the back of his mind as he always sprinkled those "Ochako is crushing again" moments here and there, but never had it as a priority in the story due to the popularity of the main duo + Shouto and his dad, thus chapter 431.

That said, Horikoshi is still an amazing mangaka, but like many others, he is still learning, especially now that he is no longer some obscure creator and has to deal with the usual trappings of fame. He probably never expected MHA to be as huge as it is and it genuinely caught him offguard.

Could be that people do misunderstood Horikoshi's writing. There's many writing styles out there. And really depending on the individual who cross a specific writing style they can either understand it or don't.

I, myself, don't think I'm an expert on any writing style except for my own.

I do think Horikoshi didn't expect MHA to become as popular as it did, especially when his previous works didn't even run that long. (I did enjoy OZ though, that was fun.)

During the years, with that rising popularity it could be that he had to keep building up the plot and I felt like had he had more prepared and probably had more time some of the plot lines could have been handled better.

He just had to experiment along the way while also going by the words of his editors and assistants. (There was also Horikoshi's health issues which hindered some creative development. How relatable.) So there some things he could and couldn't do. I mean part of the ending we got wasn't even the original ending we had in mind, not completely. One element of that OG ending (Movie: Heroes Rising) he did keep that I can think of is Midoriya losing OFA. Which was something that definitely coming.

Also, another factor of that misunderstanding of Horikoshi's writing are cultural and experience differences.

Now with Ochako and her crush, I'll be honest, even though it was "obvious" she's the supposed "love interest", I still don't think Horikoshi intended for her to only be known as that, let alone probably not really one at all.

Horikoshi has written female leads before and they're not written to be a love interest. (Shoutout to Hana Aoi, I adore her. Always doing her best.) Ochako didn't begin the story liking Izuku like that and that crush came later in the story. Heck, going back, a lot of their earlier moments I wouldn't consider "romantic". Just more like "look at these silly kids".

You mentioned Horikoshi stated he wanted to add more scenes for Izuku and Ochako, but what kind of scenes?

I get it as in more scenes in general. When thinking about it because as the story gets to the ending, Izuku doesn't have a lot of scenes with Shoto or Tenya who like Ochako he did become good friends with in the earlier parts of the story.

You know what, to me it seems like the first half of MHA was Izuku building up those bonds with the people in his class and the latter half became him kind of coming to grips on his responsibility as the last/ninth OFA user. First half of those building bonds kind of works because come later those friends do come in clutch for him in the second half.

But anyways!

With the romance, Horikoshi may not actually want to write it, no matter the gender. But probably went to add it in much later because it what draws some parts of the fandom in.

Who really knows, but Horikoshi?

I don't know, he never seem like the kind of mangaka who has cares to throw in a love plot (at least for the leads) in his stories.

I'm not an expert on his writing, I'm still trying to understand it myself. However, I do think his style is misunderstood.

Whose isn't?

[skzthelomlhehe]

"Is my skin that ugly?" College students vocalracha x F/reader of colour

Total masterlist Tag Reqs:@arestoucries

Heeyy pookieeess~ earlier I was taking a nap and had a dream lolz~ this is just gonna be a short and sweet fluff sorta angsty little oneshot based off of that dream. This is for all the brown girlies like me and the darker girlies who feel insecure about their skin.

Just so you know, you're all beautiful regardless of colour, body shape or anything for the matter. You're all extremely gorgeous in your own ways. Please don't let anyone say otherwise, my love ❤️ be a little kinder to yourself, yeah?

Also this is gonna be gender neutral so to all the dark boy pookies out there, y'all are extremely handsome as well ❤️

Hope you guys enjoy!

Genre: a little fluff a little angst, roommate vocalracha

Warnings: mention of racism, violence.

Synopsis: you're a person of colour who is a transfer student in a prestigious Korean University. You got here on a great merit but unfortunately have to face a lot of racism due to your skin. You seek your roommates' comfort and later find out they... Took care of the problem.

It was a long day at uni. You were drained. More so emotionally. Having to deal with nasty glares and snickers because you were of color was tough. You've always known that Korea was a racist country but... The emotional damage you suffer is something you didn't expect.

You walked in to your shared apartment. Jeongin and Seungmin were on the dining table laughing about something. Usually you'd join in on the fun but today... It was different story. You were extremely homesick, missed eating your childhood comfort meal, the bullying was starting to really get to you.

You always thought you were capable of brushing it off but maybe that wasn't the case. Not today at least. You threw your back on the couch, flopping down on the soft mattress of it. You leaned back, your palms covered your face as you let out a deep sigh.

The two boys, visibly worried, walked up to you. "What's up, Y/N-ah?" Jeongin asked, concerned. "I bet college works too much for this kid heh" Seungmin chimed in, trying to joke and lighten the mood.

Jeongin and Seungmin chuckled but soon flinched to a serious reality when they heard you sniffle. They looked at you and realised you were crying.

Jeongin tried to hold your hands apart, revealing your face which now flooded with tears. "Y/N?? Why are you crying??" He asked. Seungmin looked equally worried. Guilt filling his gaze.

You weren't the type who would cry that easily, especially not in front of others. But today, for some reason, it was too hard to hold back. "Be honest guys... Is my skin that ugly...?" You sobbed.

Both the guys looked at you surprised. Their demeanor changing instantly. "What?? Why would you even say that??" Seungming queried. From his eyes it looked like he was starting to get mad.

You looked down, still sobbing. "There's these... These people in my class who... Who keep bullying me because I'm of colour and... I always brushed it off but... I can't anymore..." You bent down, crying even harder now.

Jeongin kneeled down, looking up at you. "Who was it?" He asked. His voice stern and cold. The look in his eyes equally terrifying as if he was ready to kill. You looked up at Seungmin who was standing next to you, his fists clenched and eyes equally raging.

You tried to brush it off saying it'll all be over once you graduate anyway. Knowing how overprotective they were of you... There's no saying what they could do.

The two men realised you were shaken up. Noticing it, their gazes turned softer. "Come on, Y/N-ah... Please tell us..." Jeongin looked at you with puppy eyes, still kneeling down.

Seungmin sat next to you, pulling you in for a hug, while your head rest on his chest, his hand rested on your head gently patting you, "Please tell us everything that happened, Y/N-ah... We just want to be there for you. You're not ugly. You're the most good looking person we've met. You're so unique... So adorable... So attractive. How could you say that?" He whispered.

Jeongin got up as well, sitting next to you and patting your back. "Go on, Y/N-ah" he whispered.

You finally gave in, spilling everything. How people would give you nasty glances and snicker at you in a disgusting manner. How they would call you racist slurs. Sometimes even throw your things away and drop food or juice on you.

In the meantime, Jeongin prepared some warm milk for you to calm down. After a while of venting you finally felt better.

"thanks for listening, guys... I really don't know why I got so sensitive..." You gripped the glass of milk in your hand.

The two reassured you, "come on. It's ok to feel vulnerable at times. It's okay to cry. You've been holding on to it for so long. You deserved to let it out. Just because you cried doesn't mean you're sensitive okay?" Seungmin said. His voice ever so warm and comforting.

"and you're absolutely NOT ugly. You're very very very attractive. You're so kind and smart, you're so hardworking and it's always so good to be around you. Those idiots don't know shit. Don't think about them, yeah?" Jeongin chimed in.

Although it was tough changing your perception about yourself, it definitely felt nice to be told you're not ugly. It felt so comforting to be loved and cherished.

You yawned, making the two chuckle for some reason. You looked at them dumb founded, "what?" You shot at them. "It's nothing haha let's go to bed shall we?" Jeongin laughed.

The three of you head to bed. And that was one of the best sleep you'd had for a long while.

Weekend rolled by. You took your time relaxing at home, giving your parents a call and telling them about it. They encouraged you as well. You were starting to feel better already.

And soon, Monday came by in the blink of an eye. Even after all the encouragement, you felt hesitant to go. But you pushed through and went anyway.

The atmosphere was weird. People were looking at you, yes but this time it was nasty glances. They looked... Scared?

"yah! Y/N-ah! Come here!" Seungmin called out. You smiled seeing him and Jeongin waiting for you in one of the benches.

You went over to them, sitting down beside them. "Good morning." Jeongin smiled, "sorry we left early. We had some work."

"yeah good morning. Also no it's fine." You replied "But what's going on though? Why's the atmosphere so weird?" You asked, confused, raising an eyebrow.

Seungmin and Jeongin looked at each other and smirked. "You'll find out soon enough~" seungmin smiled at you slyly. It just made you feel even more weird.

The professor came in shortly after, his face grim. Since you were sitting on the front raw, he could see you when he walked in and his face went white pale the moment his eyes laid on yours.

He looked away, clearing his throat. "Class, I have an announcement to make." He spoke out.

You were even more confused. What happened?

Moments after, the professor spoke again. Apparently the group of people who had been harassing you were expelled for harassment of peers and many more charges. Once expelled, they were found beaten to a pulp in the cafeteria where they first started physically assaulting you.

You looked at the two boys who were snickering the entire time. You were stunned. Jaw almost dropping.

"wh-what did you guys do...?" You asked. Your eyes open wide. Your face visibly confused. "Oh it's nothing~ we just gave them a little nudge~" jeongin giggled. "Oh and we also 'politely' warned the professors who turned a blind eye to you that if you or anyone else every got harrassment, it would turn a bit bitter for them~" seungmin chimed in.

You were genuinely confused, should you be laughing or should you be terrified? Regardless, you felt an overwhelming sense of warmth. You knew they had your back and you couldn't be happier.

"always remember, Y/N-ah..." Jeongin whispered, "You're actually fucking stunning." Both of them finished.

Fin~

Just gonna say this once more, all of you are extremely extremely attractive so don't let anyone else make you think otherwise!! All you need is a good heart and mwah! Love you pookies~ bye byeeee

[scarlet--wiccan]

Semi related to the "Mayomoff" thing, but I really dislike sometimes how cb twt tries to distance Billy from Wanda. I get it's a way to overcompensate because MCU stans usually have the misconception that Billy and Tommy were raised by Wanda, but the insistence feels icky. By the way these people write about these characters, it would make you believe that Wanda tried to steal baby Billy from Rebecca's arms (anti roma tropes are still super present even in "leftie" fandom spaces).

This has been a thing for years, and I've definitely noticed an uptick recently, from both sides, in response to Billy's imminent arrival in the M C U. I think a lot of comic fans, in particular, have a hard time accepting that characters can be more than one thing, or have more than one important storyline or relationship. Whether or not you find it interesting, Billy's relationship with Wanda is a major part of his story, and both characters care about each other a great deal. If you think you can have one without the other, you've lost the plot.

But if I'm being honest, I do think that racism is a part of the problem. People undervalue Wanda's relationship with her sons because they don't understand the significance and nuances of Romani heritage and identity. They undervalue how meaningful a story about family separation and reunion can be, because they have no investment in our history or generational trauma. I think a lot of folks are not willing to hold the space for those perspectives or learn from Roma voices. When we talk about representation and authenticity, a lot people think they need to understand the interiority of Romani culture, but I think these experiences and historical perspectives are much more important.

On top of that, a lot of people seem to think that acknowledging Wanda as Billy's mother or labeling him as a person of Roma heritage somehow erases other aspects of his identity. In some cases, this is well-intentioned-- Jewish identity can be just as nuanced and specific, and needs to be respected-- but a lot people clearly just feel threatened by the idea that he might not be white. And that's a real shame, because in my mind, Billy's Romani heritage only adds to the richness of the character. Mixed families with varied identities exist, and there several real-world experiences you can map Billy's identity onto without invalidating his Jewishness.

-----

Homophobia and gender anxiety are also important factors. I've been following this character for nearly two decades, and I find that Billy's depiction, and how fans respond to him, often reflect shifting attitudes about "positive" gay representation-- specifically, where femininity, diverse gender expression, and gay cultural semiotics fit into that narrative. [x] [x] The character has always been legible as a certain type of gay guy, and over the years, more writers and artists have taken license to explore that aspect of Billy's style and personality. All told, it's pretty subtle, and since most of those writers are gay/bi men, I usually find it quite authentic, but certain fans-- particularly the Young Avengers fanbase-- always respond negatively to any degree of femininity or androgyny.

Billy's proximity to Wanda-- as a legacy character based on a female hero, and as a man who identifies positively as a "witch," when that word is used with explicitly feminine connotations elsewhere in the Marvel canon-- evokes a lot of those same responses. Again, I think this is a perfectly authentic and frankly very common relationship for gay men to have with femininity. But characters like that are rarely represented as powerful, admirable, or desirable, and Billy is all of those things. To me, that is positive representation, and anyone who can't see that has an internalized bias they need to work on.

On the flip side-- homophobia and transphobia are on the rise in America, and I really think the pendulum has swung back around in terms of how comfortable people are expressing those views in public. I've been more plugged into the M C U fandom lately because of Agatha, and I've seen a lot of folks just saying mean, homophobic things about the actor and character. I don't want to defend Locke, because of the whitewashing, but that sort of hate okay is not okay.

[salarta]

Polaris/Lorna Dane, Original Intent, and Marvel's Refusal to Set Things Right

I wrote this elsewhere. I felt it was worth sharing here too. It was in response to a discussion about original creator intent vs later writers, and how to view treatment in official works.

As the original creator, they knew best who the character is meant to be. They're the ones who put tons of thought into traits they should have, who undoubtedly thought of things influencing the character or important history for them that never hit the page. It's the original creator who visioned up what this character is meant to represent and offer to the narrative and readers. Without the original creator, the character wouldn't even exist.

That does not mean every single thing from the creator should be taken as gospel truth never to be changed or questioned. Lovecraft, for example, was horribly racist. There's no reason to keep his racism intact for the sake of "being faithful." However, the core concepts like what the elder gods are and represent are a thing where looking back at that work makes the most sense if you're trying to do something new with it.

So for Lorna, I look to the original creator and what they clearly intended when they created her. What we see out of that is: Lorna is SUPPOSED to be a powerhouse character who even the X-Men dread the prospect of having to fight, but who they're pleased to have on their side when she's with them. She's supposed to be more progressive and feminist, she's supposed to have a struggle between Xavier and Magneto philosophies, and at least some mutants are supposed to think of her as mutant royalty due to her lineage from Magneto.

Most nostalgia-based depictions of Lorna have none of these elements. The closest they come to it recently is HALF of the last point, where she's of Magneto's lineage but not seen as mutant royalty. And even that one, Brevoort was fighting against it a decade ago. I think the reason for him being so opposed to it comes from how nostalgia-based depictions violate all the other core elements of who she's supposed to be, so he thinks Lorna shouldn't have any of it.

We've talked before about how Claremont toward the end of his run had tried to turn Lorna into a completely different character, down to even changing her powers and plans to change her codename. We say he didn't pull it off, but if we're being real blunt and honest about it, he actually succeeded in his goal. He ripped apart every single thing she's supposed to be, and decades later, it's still a struggle to get even one of those elements to be recognized and respected.

She's supposed to be a powerhouse that the X-Men dread fighting, but she's regularly depicted as a punching bag who may talk and look tough but gets bested easily. "I'm a big gun" she's written saying in 2020s X-Factor, right before getting mind controlled and called stupid because the story decided she had to be depicted acting stupid to benefit others. She's supposed to be someone the X-Men want on their side, but she's completely excluded from most major X-Men activity. She's supposed to be progressive and feminist, but she's instead made out to have her entire identity revolve around supporting other characters, mostly men, mainly Havok. She's supposed to struggle between Xavier and Magneto philosophies, but instead she's most often depicted as towing the Xavier line. She's supposed to be seen as mutant royalty, but most characters act like she's a nobody, with even Exodus getting to be on the Quiet Council instead of her.

This is a character who's been deeply wronged, and decades later, people like Brevoort refuse to set things right because they'd rather be nostalgic for sexism that Marvel got away with decades ago.

[sergessuperbsanctum]

X-Men is about civil rights. If you didn’t get that, you didn’t get X-Men.

Black Panther is about civil rights. If you didn’t get that, you didn’t get Black Panther.

Captain America literally fought Nazis. He is the embodiment of fighting the alt-right. If you didn’t get that, you didn’t get Captain America.

The Empire in Star Wars is fascist. The Rebel alliance are Anti-Fascist. If you didn’t get that, you didn’t get Star Wars.

The Punisher isn’t meant to be a role model for police or armed forces. So much so that the writers of The Punisher made him actively speak out against it in a comic. If you didn’t get that, you didn’t get The Punisher.

Deadpool is queer. He’s pansexual. Fact. If you didn’t get that you didn’t get Deadpool.

Star Trek is about equality for all genders, races and sexualities. As early as the mid-60s it was taking a pro-choice stance and defending women’s right to choose. One of its clearest themes is accepting different cultures and appearances and working together for peace. (It’s also anti-capitalist and pro-vegan). If you didn’t get that, you didn’t get Star Trek.

Superman and Supergirl (and a whole host of other superheroes) are immigrants. The stance of those comics is pro-immigration and pro-equality and acceptance. If you didn’t get that, you didn’t get Superman or Supergirl.

Stan Lee said “Racism and bigotry are among the deadliest social ills plaguing the world today.” If you’re bigoted or racist, you didn’t get any of the characters Stan Lee created.

The stories we grew up with all taught us to value other people and cultures and to treasure the differences between us. Only villains were xenophobic, or sexist, or racist, or totalitarian. I can’t understand how anyone can have missed that.

If you’re upset that there’s a black Spider-Man, or a black Captain America, or a female Thor, or that Ms Marvel is Muslim, or that Captain Marvel was pro-feminism, or any of the other things right wing “fans” say is “stealing their childhood” - you never got it in the first place. The things you claim are now “pandering to the lefties” were never on your side to begin with.

If you consider yourself a fan of these things, but you still think the LGBTQ+ community is too “in your face”, or have a problem with Black Lives Matter, or want to “take the country back from immigrants”, then you’re not really a fan at all.

Geek culture isn’t suddenly left wing... it always was. You just grew up to be intolerant. You became the villain in the stories you used to love.

*copied and pasted*